


Bad Blood

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Crime, Drama, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 06:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: What makes us who and what we are? Is it nature or nurture? Under Grace's watchful eye, Boyd has to ask himself some difficult questions after Eve reveals his unexpected connection to a recently murdered homeless man... and then to skeletal remains discovered in Epping Forest. Complete. Enjoy!





	1. Part 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

**Bad Blood**

by Joodiff

* * *

" _Sângele apã nu se face..."_ – blood is thicker than water.

**PART ONE**

A quiet tap on her open office door brings Grace out of her momentary reverie, and she looks up from her desk to see Eve standing in the doorway, a slim cardboard folder in her hands and a slight smile on her face. Grace smiles back without thinking, but it's no hardship at all – she's very fond of the younger woman. "Eve."

"Happy thoughts?" her colleague inquires, the merest suspicion of a twinkle in her eye. As befits her job, Eve is both observant and analytical, and Grace has no doubt that she not only notices far more than most, but is also pretty damn accurate in the silent conclusions she draws from what she sees. It's unsettling. Interesting, too.

"Mm," she says noncommittally, far too wily to give anything away easily. She's as sure as she can be that Eve is both discreet and trustworthy, but... Dismissing the thought, she sits up a little straighter. "Something I can help you with?"

Eve gestures towards the empty office next door. "Actually, I'm looking for Boyd. Have you seen him?"

"In court all afternoon," Grace reminds her. "The Anderson case. Spence is around somewhere if that helps."

"Not really, to be honest," Eve admits with a grimace. She hesitates, then adds, "Though, if _you're_ not too busy…"

The slight edge to the other woman's tone suggests it's not altogether an idle codicil. Intrigued, Grace pushes away the long overdue report she's been struggling to complete for the last hour or more. "I'd be grateful for the distraction, believe me."

"Thanks," Eve says, stepping forward. She glances back towards the empty squad room and adds, "Would you mind if I shut the door?"

"Not at all," Grace assures her, but she's a little surprised. Wonders what on earth could require such a precaution against accidental eavesdropping. She watches and waits while Eve closes the door then pulls up a spare chair and settles down. "What's on your mind?"

"This came through earlier from CID at Canning Town," Eve says, putting the thin official folder onto the desk between them. "Fifty-one year-old homeless guy found dead near Thames Wharf a few days ago. Post mortem suggests he was stabbed late Monday night."

"Not one for us, then," Grace comments.

Eve shakes her head. "Definitely not, but since they couldn't identify him straight away they ran his DNA against the database, and not only did they come up with a name… they got a flag against one of our cases."

The information is interesting, but not astonishing. Grace raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Oh…?"

"Hippie Dude," Eve supplies in return. "Skeletal remains found in Epping Forest five years ago…?"

Trawling her memory, Grace comes up with, "The guy buried with his bong and his flute?"

"The guy buried with his bong and his flute," Eve confirms with a nod. "I ran his DNA at the time – no match."

"We couldn't get anywhere with it, and in the end Boyd told us to archive it," Grace recalls. Sadly, not all the cases brought to the CCU's attention have successful outcomes. "So Hippie Dude and this homeless guy – "

"Gavin Chapman."

" – are linked? How?"

"Familial DNA," Eve says. Her expression is closed, lacking the usual excitement and satisfaction of discovery. "They're definitely closely related. With further testing I could probably tell you how. There's something else."

Grace eyes her, well-aware of the telling undertone in Eve's voice. "Yes…?"

A moment's hesitation is followed by a deep, heavy sigh. "I really don't know if I should discuss this with you, Grace."

More bemused than offended, she says, "I see."

"Look, everything I've told you so far is already logged and recorded, but…" Eve's voice trails for a moment, but then she seems to come to a decision. "Off the record? Strictly between you and me – at least for now?"

"All right," Grace agrees, perplexed. "Assuming, of course, that you're going to talk to Boyd about whatever it is?"

Eve nods. "Oh, I'm definitely going to talk to Boyd. I don't have a choice."

Not sure what to make of the statement, Grace prompts, "So?"

"Well, firstly you need to understand that our lab handles _incoming_ data from other sources in a completely different manner to data we acquire ourselves, here. When we take our _own_ samples we usually already know at least some of what we can safely exclude, so we don't often bother wasting extra time and money running unnecessary additional comparisons."

"And the relevance of that would be…?" Grace inquires.

"Unfortunately, we can't be anything like as confident with data from external sources, so unless there's a compelling reason not to, we usually run it against everything we have," Eve explains. "Chapman didn't just score a hit against Hippie Dude. He scored a direct hit against our internal staff database – the one we maintain for elimination purposes in case of cross-contamination."

Startled, Grace frowns. "What?"

Eve makes a vague gesture. She doesn't look happy. Very far from it, in fact. "Familial hit again."

"Wait, you're saying they're both related to someone _here_? Someone in the unit?"

"I don't know for certain about Hippie Dude yet," Eve admits. "But Chapman definitely is. Boyd."

Grace stares at her, trying to process the information. " _Boyd…_?"

Clearly troubled, Eve nods.

-oOo-

"It might be _improbable_ ," Grace says, a short while later, as they sit drinking coffee, her office door once again closed. "But it's certainly not _impossible_."

Cradling her mug in both hands, Eve looks sceptical. "I thought his brother was a solicitor?"

Grace nods, thinking of the short, jovial man in question. "He is. And their late father was, too. A very respectable middle-class family altogether."

"But…?" Eve inquires, her gaze shrewd and steady. "Come on, Grace, this is still all between you, me and the gatepost, remember?"

For a moment she doesn't respond, mulling over the wisdom of sharing what she knows. Then she sighs and says, "They're both adopted. James and Peter. Audrey and Douglas weren't able to have kids of their own. Boyd isn't biologically related to his brother; they were adopted separately."

Eve is silent for several long moments, evidently considering the implications. Finally, she says, "This could potentially be a very big and dangerous minefield, Grace. For _all_ of us."

"Mm."

"Does Boyd know anything about his biological parents?"

Sipping her coffee, Grace shrugs. "To be honest, we've never really talked about it. Mel… was adopted. That's how I first found out about Boyd's… situation. When she died, he went to see her parents. The Silvers, I mean; her adoptive parents. The whole thing hit everyone hard, but especially Boyd. He felt so responsible for her – and he empathised with her."

"It's always hard," Eve says, and Grace has no doubt that they are both thinking about Stella. So young, so full of life and promise…

"Anyway," Grace says, attempting to dispel the sudden gloom, "as I said, it's improbable, yes, but not at all impossible. There are bound to be biological relatives out there. The question is…"

"How we handle it?" Eve supplies. "Chapman's death is being investigated by CID, but if Hippie Dude – "

Wincing, Grace says, "We should probably think of a better name for him. Under the circumstances."

"He's got a name," Eve points out. "Unidentified Male Six Two Seven Slash Three Slash Zero Five."

"Catchy."

"Yeah. What I was going to say is that if it turns out that Hippie Dude is _also_ related to Boyd in some way – "

"Wouldn't that have shown up when you did the original tests?" Grace asks, frowning.

"That's what I was trying to tell you before," Eve says, putting her now-empty mug down on the desk. "Boyd was away at a conference the whole time the… remains… were actually here in the lab. I didn't need to worry about eliminating his DNA, so…" She shrugs.

"I see. So Hippie Dude _could_ be related to both Chapman and Boyd?"

"Exactly. And if he _is_ …"

"There's a clear conflict of interest should Boyd ever decide to re-open the case," Grace finishes for her.

Eve is silent for a moment. They regard each other, neither offering anything more. In the end, it's Eve who breaks the short silence. "Grace…"

"You want me to talk to him," she guesses.

A slow nod. "It might be easier."

"All right," Grace agrees, though she's far from happy about the idea. "Leave me the folder and I'll deal with it. But, Eve…?"

"Keep it to myself for now?" Eve says. "No problem. Thanks, Grace."

-oOo-

The balance of the long afternoon seems to crawl by, the hands on the clock taking an age to reach four o'clock and then five o'clock. It's a slow, largely uneventful sort of day in the CCU's dingy basement headquarters, and by the time Boyd finally reappears, a significant number of people, Spencer and Kat included, have already quietly vanished for the night. Grace isn't altogether disappointed – the conversation she needs to have with him is going to be difficult enough without worrying about being overheard. The speed and exuberance of his arrival is promising, though; evidently, his afternoon has gone well. So well, it would seem, that he stops in her office doorway to grin at her. He says, "Tell me I'm smarter than the average police officer."

She raises her eyebrows at him, amused and affectionate despite the worries prickling at her. "Someone's had a good afternoon, then."

"Indeed someone has. Defence barrister tied herself up in bloody knots and eventually fell flat on her face. Tenner says it's all over bar the shouting. Damn, I'm such a credible witness."

His boisterous good-humour is infectious, and Grace can't help smiling despite the intimidating presence of Eve's brown folder on her desk. She says, "And so _unbelievably_ modest."

The engaging grin doesn't abate. "Absolutely. Everyone's buggered off home early, have they?"

"Eve's still around, as far as I know."

"That's a 'yes', then is it? You're so diplomatic, Grace. Dinner?"

"Lovely," she says with a nod. "But there's something I need to talk to you about first, Boyd, and I can't guarantee you'll still be in the mood afterwards."

He gives her an askance look. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"Because you're smarter than the average police officer?" Grace suggests with a half-smile. She nods at the chair Eve was sitting on earlier. "I think you should come in and sit down."

"That bad?"

"I don't know," she tells him truthfully. "Eve came to see me this afternoon and…"

-oOo-

She's not sure how she expects Boyd to react, not really, but the strange wall of apparent imperturbability she encounters is certainly atypical. Grace watches as he leafs in silence through the few printed pages, and eventually hears herself say, "All we really know about Gavin Chapman at this stage is that he was born in Stratford in 'fifty-seven, and had a record as long as your arm for minor offences in his younger days. Theft, mainly, though he spent eighteen months in the Scrubs in the late 'seventies for beating up his first wife after catching her _in flagrante_ with one of the neighbours. After that, nothing until he was arrested last year for a minor public order offence related to vagrancy."

"And he's definitely related to the guy found in Epping Forest?" Boyd asks, still scanning pages.

"Unquestionably, according to Eve. And also – "

" – to me," he says, not looking up. "Familial DNA…?"

Grace nods. "He could be a biological cousin, apparently. To either or both of you. Further tests could narrow the exact relationship down."

Boyd closes the folder and drops it back onto her desk. His expression gives nothing away. "Well?"

Puzzled, Grace blinks at him. "What?"

An impatient sigh is followed by, "Come on, Grace. Out with it. Whatever it is you're so desperate to say."

He didn't reach the lofty rank of Detective Superintendent without demonstrating considerable ferocious acuity, she knows. Whatever else he is or isn't, he's not a stupid man. Choosing her words with care, she says, "We need to know exactly what the genetic link is between the two dead men simply to see if it provides any more evidence for our case."

He nods. "Agreed."

"And it would be… prudent… to clarify your position."

"I assume mean _genetically_?" There's a sudden edge to his voice.

"Of course," she says, holding his intent gaze. "Boyd, if it turns out that you're _also_ related to the man from Epping Forest and there's ever any new evidence… well, the CCU couldn't re-open the investigation. It would be a clear conflict of interests."

He frowns. His reply is an irritable, "I disagree. Spencer could take on the role of OIC."

She almost snorts. "And you'd be happy with that, would you?"

"You know me better, Grace. Happy? No. But that wouldn't stop me doing my duty and stepping aside."

Somehow, Grace believes him. For all his many faults, Peter Boyd is a man of integrity. Still careful, she adds, "There are also… personal… implications to consider, too."

Boyd leans back in his borrowed chair, his deep dark eyes regarding her with steady calm. "My father was a solicitor from Edinburgh, Grace. My mother's family are from Chiswick. Jamie would tell you exactly the same."

She nods. "I accept that. I just want you to be aware – "

"Grace," he interrupts her, his deep, smooth voice quiet. "If I'd ever had the _remotest_ interest in finding out about my biological parents, don't you think I'd have looked into it years ago, given all the tools at my disposal?"

"That would have been a conscious choice," she points out. "What we're talking about here is obtaining information almost by default. Information you may not be prepared for."

"I'm a big boy," he says, his tone still mild. "My parents – by which I mean Audrey and Douglas – were good people. I was six months old when they adopted me, and thanks to them, I had a very happy and very normal childhood. I don't have any… issues… about my biological parents for you to fret over, Grace. I was born in Shoreditch, my birth mother was a seventeen year-old girl called June Clarke, and I don't have a fucking clue who my father was. End of story."

"That's what I'm trying to say," Grace says. "You have no idea what you might learn from all this and – "

"Yeah, well," Boyd interrupts, getting to his feet, "the way I see it, Pandora's Box is already well and truly fucking open and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm going to see Eve, and then, unless you really fancy sitting there on your own all bloody night, we're going out in search of dinner. I'm starving."

-oOo-

Aside from confirming that he has authorised further DNA tests, Boyd refuses to be drawn on the subject again until much later when dinner is merely a pleasant memory and they are settled together on the big, comfortable sofa in his living room debating whether it's too late for her to drive home. Predictably, he maintains that it is – far, far too late. Grace smirks and curls into him a little more before asking, "Are you sure you're all right? About all this DNA business, I mean?"

"I'm fine," he says, and there's nothing in his tone or his expression that indicates he's lying to her. As if sensing she needs further reassurance, he adds, "Grace, Jamie and I always knew we were adopted. It was never a secret, at home or anywhere else. We were two very ordinary, generally very happy little boys. No-one's childhood is completely perfect, is it? But our parents did their best for the pair of us, gave us all kinds of opportunities we probably would never have had otherwise. Neither of us has ever been interested in finding out about our biological roots. You're looking for something that just isn't there."

It's difficult for her to comprehend. Can't imagine knowing nothing about her ancestry, and not wanting to. Then, she was born into a large and close Catholic family, one where everyone routinely gossiped about everyone else and very few secrets were safe. Head resting on his shoulder she asks, "Aren't you even the tiniest bit curious? Now that this has happened?"

"Curious?" Boyd echoes. "Of course. Bothered? No. Not in the way you mean."

"One or both of those men could be your brother," she insists.

A touch of irritability creeping into his voice, he says, "My brother lives in Highgate, Grace, and he's married to a bad-tempered harpy called Eileen."

Thinking of the woman in question, Grace has to chuckle. As her long and complicated relationship with him has matured and evolved into something far more intimate than she could ever have expected, she's had cause to encounter Eileen on several brief occasions – and she really can't disagree with his harsh analysis of the woman. James is fair, stocky, and amiable, and his wife is slim, dark, sharp-edged and brittle. Not the sort of woman Grace could ever imagine warming to. She glances at her watch and sighs. "I really should be going."

Boyd tightens his grip on her waist a fraction. "Oh, I don't think so."

He's far too strong for her to escape easily. A very good excuse for not even bothering to try. "The alternative is getting up at the crack of dawn. Either that, or being late for work, and my boss is an absolute tyrant."

"Is that so?" he inquires, shifting position enough to nuzzle her neck.

She murmurs in pleasure, manages, "Mm hmm."

He moves to her throat. "Your boss is a pussycat, Grace, and you know it."

Which, of course, she does. She surrenders to the inevitable with a sly, "Only when it suits him."

-oOo-

In fact, thanks to relatively light traffic, Grace isn't that much later arriving for work than has become usual over the last six months or more. No-one comments on her tardiness, least of all Boyd, who's far more aware than anyone else in the building just how tired she still gets despite every test and scan that's proved beyond reasonable doubt that the grim spectre of cancer hasn't just retreated but has apparently fled the battleground altogether. Waving a vague greeting to her junior colleagues, Grace takes the time to hang up her coat and bag before slipping uninvited into Boyd's office. He's deep into his usual morning routine, shuffling papers and throwing everything he deems of no importance aside for someone else to deal with later, whilst simultaneously drinking coffee and checking his email. Male or not, there's no question that he has multi-tasking down to a fine art, at least on the administrative front.

"Good morning," Grace says brightly, deliberately overlooking the fact that it's rather less than two hours since she last saw him and that at the time he was still curled up sleepily under the bedcovers, reminding her of a grumpy and somewhat tousled dormouse. The incongruous analogy amused her no end. Still does. Studying the top of his head, she prompts, "Mary Trent?"

Boyd looks up at her, expression blank. "Mary Trent…?"

"The Knightsbridge robbery…?" she offers, then rolls her eyes at his continuing incomprehension. "Oh, I told you all about this _yesterday_ , Boyd. She's coming in this morning to talk to me about the men who held her and the other shop assistant at knifepoint. You said you wanted to be there."

"Cancel it."

She frowns at the unexpected instruction. "What?"

"Cancel it, postpone it, whatever. We've got an appointment with Eve, and then we're going to Newham."

Bewildered, she asks, " _Newham_? Why?"

"Because if Eve's right," Boyd tells her, still flicking through the papers on his desk, "the remains from Epping Forest belong to one Michael Anthony Allen, formerly of Burchell Road, Newham. Born in 'sixty two, reported missing by his girlfriend in 'ninety seven."

Something pertinent strikes Grace immediately. "That's not a million miles from Thames Wharf where Chapman was found dead."

"Could be something, could be nothing," he says, his attention returning to the remaining paperwork spread across his desk. "Tell Spence we'll be out all morning, then meet me in the lab in half-an-hour. Oh, and on second thoughts, get Kat to talk to the Trent woman."

"Anything else?" Grace demands, but either Boyd doesn't detect her peeved sarcasm or he's pointedly ignoring it.

-oOo-

"Y chromosome analysis," Eve explains, tapping the printed pages spread out in front of them with her pen. "I can tell you with a high degree of probability that all three individuals share the same father – or possibly the same grandfather. However, _mitochondrial_ DNA conclusively proves that all three had different mothers."

"Genetic half-brothers," Grace says, taking off her reading glasses.

Eve nods. "That would be my best guess."

Grace glances at Boyd, but he's staring at the results in steady silence. Deciding he's not about to say anything, she asks, "How did you manage to identify Michael Allen?"

"Hippie Dude…?" Eve starts, then bites down, evidently deciding that the epithet is perhaps a little tactless given the situation. "A moment of inspiration and a lot of sheer blind luck. Remember the Leytonstone arson attack we investigated last year? It occurred to me in the middle of the night that we've still got the dental records I requested at the time for all the mispers who could be possible victims."

"And?" Grace asks.

"I broke them down into a number of sub-categories when they first arrived," Eve continues, "and when I came in this morning I immediately checked the skull x-rays of the Epping Forest skeleton against the Leytonstone case records. Specifically against the five thirty-something missing males listed who'd had all four wisdom teeth extracted… and there he was. Michael Anthony Allen. Perfect match."

Boyd finally stirs, looking up at both of them. "So we need to re-open the Epping Forest case."

Eve's response is immediate. "Or pass it over to CID."

He shakes his head. "Cold cases are _our_ remit."

"Boyd, if these DNA results are right – and they _are_ – both Allen and Chapman are directly related to you. We can't investigate this any further."

"Eve," Grace says, a deliberate warning note in her voice.

She's too late. Boyd is already bristling. "It's not up to _you_ to decide which cases the CCU chooses to investigate, Doctor Lockhart."

"Oh, for God's sake, Boyd, that's not – "

"Email me those results," he raps back at her, cutting her short. "Grace. With me."

Mouthing a silent apology to Eve, Grace hurries after him as he sweeps out of the lab, pausing only to throw his white lab coat in the general direction of the rail. Following him down the corridor, she says, "We talked about this last night, Boyd. You can't – "

"Don't presume to tell me what I _can_ and _can't_ do, Grace," he growls over his shoulder.

"Will you just stop a minute?"

"No," he says, not breaking his stride. "Team meeting in half an hour. Give Spence a quick rundown."

"What about Newham? What about Mary Trent?" Grace demands, still pursuing him.

It's obvious, however, that Boyd isn't listening.

-oOo-

The atmosphere in the squad room is volatile, certainly more volatile than it's been at any point since the Linda Cummings debacle, and Grace rightly suspects it won't take much to trigger a major argument between Spencer and Boyd, both of whom are on their feet and both of whom are glowering. Mid-forties, late-fifties, it doesn't seem to matter – there's already a potent, uneasy mix of conflict and testosterone in the air, and both of them are tough, obstinate, bull-headed men who don't easily back down from a fight. It's Kat who plaintively says, "Shouldn't we talk to CID at Canning Town, if there's a genetic link between Allen and Chapman?"

Both men ignore her. Spencer challenges, "Aren't we in enough shit as it is, without making things worse? We can't re-open this case, Boyd."

" _I_ decide which cases this unit undertakes," Boyd barks at him. Taller than Spencer by a few inches, there's no doubt he's attempting to make the most of his clear height advantage as they glare at each other from barely two feet apart. " _My_ unit, _my_ authority. We'll do exactly what we always do – we'll pull everything out of the archive, dust it down and make a preliminary evaluation before deciding whether or not to proceed. I'm happy to let it run alongside our existing cases. You will act as OIC."

" _Me_?" Spencer retorts, clearly surprised.

"Are you suffering from a problem with your hearing, Detective Inspector?"

Spencer shakes his head, and his answer is a sullen, "No, sir."

"Good. I expect to be kept updated, and I want your initial findings on my desk by six o'clock tonight. Clear?"

The reply is grudging. "Clear."

Grace is more than aware of the silent, accusing look that Eve shoots her, but she isn't sure what else she can do. Boyd is the most senior police officer in the building, higher-ranking than the station's nominal commander, Chief Inspector Shaw, and even if she and Eve are both civilian consultants who aren't bound by the duties and obligations of police rank, Boyd is still the head of the unit they work for, and they both answer directly to him. The CCU, like all police units, is not a democracy. Take away the team meetings and the group discussions and the bottom line is that Boyd gives the orders, and the rest of them are obliged to follow them.

A confused-looking Kat asks, "So am I interviewing Mary Trent, or not?"

The exasperated look Boyd casts in her direction is baleful. "Have I told you otherwise?"

"No, sir."

"Then I suggest you get on with doing whatever it is you need to do before she gets here. Grace, a word in my office."

Again, Grace follows him, but this time she doesn't bother to conceal her annoyance as she closes the door behind her with unnecessary force, cutting out the sound of muttered complaints from the squad room. Not giving him a chance to get the first word in, she demands, "What on earth was all _that_ about?"

"What?"

"All that ridiculous posturing."

Boyd scowls and drops into his chair. "Oh, don't start on me, Grace. I'm not in the mood."

"Obviously," she sniffs, but she doesn't push him any further. It's not difficult to guess what's unsettling him, what's responsible for his abrupt high-handedness. Instead, she says, "They understand this is a sensitive issue for you, Boyd… but you're not helping yourself by shouting them down every time they try to express an opinion."

"When I want their opinion, I'll ask for it," he growls. "Who's in charge of this unit?"

Summoning patience, she says, "You are."

"And we're quite clear about that, are we?"

Grace sighs, a little irritated, a little resigned. "Quite clear, thank you, _Detective Superintendent_."

He stares at her for a moment longer before saying, "So talk to me about Chapman. Do we think these two deaths are in any way linked?"

"I can't possibly tell you that at this stage," she replies, unwilling to further provoke his formidable temper by appearing uncooperative, but not prepared to dissemble.

"Gut instinct?"

"Gut instinct at this moment… no. Complete coincidence."

"Hm. We've got too many complete coincidences here for my liking, Grace. Far too bloody many."

"We've seen it before," she points out. "Things that initially appear to be highly improbable, but turn out to be exactly the way they seem. Occam's Razor, Boyd."

"The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Yeah, I know."

"Look," Grace says, sitting down opposite him, "I _know_ what you said last night, but all this is bound to unsettle you. You may have no emotional tie to either of these men, but learning that they're genetically linked to you... it's profound. It's going to raise all sorts of questions, stir up all kind of emotions, whether you want it to, or not."

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Boyd says, but although his tone is firm, much of his former ire seems to have bled away. "Go and get your stuff. We're going to Newham."

"Boyd…"

He shrugs. "Background research, that's all."

Grace grimaces and shakes her head. "You're going to march straight into trouble, aren't you? Despite everyone's advice? Spencer's right, you know, we're still not exactly flavour of the month at the Yard. We don't need to stir up any more controversy."

Boyd is on his feet again. "Are you coming with me, or…?"

-oOo-

There's nothing memorable or unusual about Burchell Road. It's typical of the area, small terraced houses hunched up along both sides of the street, some very shabby, some recently renovated, but all of them anonymous and unremarkable. Lots of parked cars, most of them several years old; dozens of satellite dishes. A very ordinary East London street not far from the A13, and almost equidistant between Plaistow Park and Brampton Park. There's no doubt that they, and Boyd's dark Audi, look very out of place, but if they're being observed, it's discreetly from behind blinds or net curtains. Looking up and down the street, Grace comments, "No-man's land."

Boyd glances at her. "Purgatory."

He's got a point. There's a lot of population movement in the area, a lot of temporary and short-term accommodation. People come and they go on streets like this one. Only a very few are thoroughly rooted. It's not an ideal place to look for information about a man last domiciled there more than a decade ago. Grace points towards one of the more salubrious-looking houses, one with a bright red front door. "Forty-three."

There's no answer at forty-three. Grace knocks again while Boyd attempts to peer in through the bay-window. An elderly man appears from the house next door, his expression simultaneously hostile and curious. Grace smiles a friendly greeting at him and asks, "Do you know the people who live here?"

He glowers towards Boyd. "Police."

It's a statement, not a question. Grace nods. " _He_ is, I'm not. Doctor Foley."

"Young couple," the man says, his thin arms now folded across his skinny chest. There are old, faded tattoos on the backs of both of his hands. "Not long married. Both work at the hospital. In trouble are they?"

"No," Boyd says, joining them. He extends his warrant card for inspection. "Detective Superintendent Boyd."

"McMahon," the old man says, not sparing the proffered identification more than a brief, disdainful glance.

"Have you lived here long, Mr McMahon?" Grace inquires.

"Forty odd years," he informs her, unfolding his arms.

Boyd says, "We're looking for information about a man who lived here around ten years ago. Michael Allen."

"Squatters," McMahon replies, searching through his pockets and finally producing a crumpled cigarette packet and an equally battered-looking box of matches.

Before Boyd can voice his inevitable impatience at the man's laconic manner, Grace asks, "This was a squat ten years ago?"

McMahon lights a cigarette. "Empty for years, then the damned hippies moved in. Took forever to get them out. Bloody nuisance, they were. People coming and going at all hours, loud music, drink, drugs. Who knows what else? Council got 'em out in the end."

Grace glances at Boyd, but his expression is unreadable. She tries, "Do you know where they went?"

"Don't know, don't care. Just glad to see the back of 'em."

Striving for patience, she asks, "Would _anybody_ around here know, do you think?"

"Try the community centre on Barking Road, maybe."

"Thank you," Boyd says, already turning away. His sarcasm doesn't lessen with the additional, "You've been a great help, Mr McMahon."

McMahon doesn't stir. He simply inhales smoke deep into his lungs and mutters, "Arrogant fucker."

Grace is extremely glad that Boyd seems to have chosen precisely that moment to exercise his notoriously selective hearing. He carries on walking without hesitation, and with a final amused nod to McMahon, Grace follows him.

-oOo-

"Please," she says, watching him as he stares straight ahead. They are parked on Brampton Road, right beside the park, and for the last ten minutes their conversation has gone round and round in frustrating circles leaving both of them irritable and exasperated. Now, Grace has changed tactics. When Boyd says nothing, she says, "When have I _ever_ tried to use our… personal… relationship to influence our professional one?"

His reply is gruff. "That's hardly the point."

"Maybe not," she persists, "but surely it tells you something about how important it is that you actually listen to me this time? Don't do this. Let Spencer deal with it, and if he eventually decides it should be referred to the DAC's office, don't stand in his way."

Boyd frowns, but still doesn't look at her. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just sitting in the damned car listening to you going on and on at me."

There are times when she wonders what it is she sees in him. Why she puts up with his antagonistic rudeness, his short temper. Trying hard not to let him provoke her further, Grace says, "You _know_ what I mean. For God's sake, Boyd, this is _not_ the time to hand the Yard another stick to beat you with."

His head snaps round and he glares at her. "Just how naïve do you think I am?"

She doesn't quail. Instead, she replies, "I don't think you're at all naïve, but I know how stupidly stubborn you can be when you think you're right. Don't do this."

"I told you, I'm not doing _anything_."

"Good," she snaps, struggling to control the increasing urge to reach out and shake him. "Then can we _please_ just go back to the office and pass what we've learned on to Spence?"

Boyd doesn't answer. He simply continues to stare into the mid-distance, hardly blinking. It's a very long time before he says, "Do you think it's nature or nurture that makes us what we are, Grace?"

From him, it's a very unusual question. One that deserves more than a flippant reply. She considers her answer for a few seconds before sighing. "That's a _huge_ question, Boyd. One with no definitive answer."

"You've met Jamie. We're very different."

A statement she can't disagree with. Physically and temperamentally they are poles apart. One dark, tall and intense, the other fair, short and easygoing. Grace shrugs. "So? Even biological siblings brought up together can be very different in all sorts of ways. We're all individuals with our own particular characters."

"Mm."

She reaches out a tentative hand to him, and when he doesn't shy away she allows herself the brief indulgence of stroking his silvery hair for a moment. It's soft and dense, and under other circumstances she'd be tempted to bury her fingers deep into it and kiss him until both of their moods improved. Instead, she says, "You're a good man, Peter. Yes, you make mistakes, but that's all part of being human. You only fall so far because you try to reach so much higher than most."

Boyd snorts. "Oh, _please_ … Which bloody awful self-improvement book did you get that one from?"

She pulls a face in return. "Okay, admittedly it's a bit trite. True, though, isn't it? You're still in the doghouse because of the Linda Cummings inquiry – but what would have happened if you _hadn't_ made any attempt to stop her jumping? Absolutely nothing, that's what. The Coroner would've recorded a straightforward suicide verdict and that would have been the end of it. The unit's where it is now simply because you did the right thing and tried to save her."

"A decision I'm living to regret."

"My point entirely. Do what's best for everyone, Boyd. Play it by the book and let Spence do his job."

He looks at her again. "You're an incredibly annoying woman, you know that, don't you?"

Grace almost smiles. "If I wasn't, you wouldn't be remotely interested."

"You think that, do you?"

Not sure what to make of the sudden, enigmatic look in his brown eyes, she says, "Just start the car, and let's get out of here."

-oOo-

"Chapman's father, according to his birth certificate," Eve says, handing Grace a scrap of paper on which a single name has been carefully printed. "Mihail Străjescu. Deceased."

"Străjescu…?" Grace says, stumbling over the pronunciation.

Eve nods. "Romanian. The name, at least."

"Mihail... as in Michael?"

"Yeah."

"So Michael Allen was named after his father?" Grace speculates, putting the piece of paper in the top drawer of her desk.

"Could well be," Eve agrees. She hesitates before asking, "How's Boyd?"

Grace waves a hand in response. "Boyd… is Boyd. Has Spence managed to get any other information on Străjescu?"

"Only that he died in Haringey in 'ninety-six aged sixty-eight," Eve says. "Natural causes, you'll be pleased to know. Heart disease."

Doing a quick mental calculation, Grace muses aloud, "So he was born, what, in the late 'twenties?"

"Guess so." A shrug, followed by, "Grace, is Boyd _really_ going to have us investigate Allen's death?"

"I honestly don't know, Eve," she says, not knowing how else to answer. "I think he intends to read through whatever Spence puts on his desk later and then make a decision. Don't be too hard on him… he knows he's skating on thin ice."

Eve doesn't look convinced. "Are you _sure_? Because if this blows up in our faces…"

Grace sighs. It's not the first time she's felt caught between Boyd and the rest of the team, and she doubts it will be the last. She says, "All I can say… is that he's well-aware of his position – and _ours_."

"I hope you're right," Eve mutters, turning to leave. She pauses, looks back. "Grace… I know it's none of my business, but if you've got the sort of relationship with him that I think you have…"

"You're right," Grace says, brisk but not unkind, "it's none of your business."

Eve nods slowly and retreats without a further word. For a second Grace is tempted to call her back, to apologise for what could definitely be considered unnecessary brusqueness, but in the end she decides against it. Their friendship is warm enough and close enough not to be affected by the occasional sting. Eve is astute both by nature and by training, and she was never far away during the gruelling months of Grace's illness and treatment – it's a safe bet she knows _exactly_ what's been going on well away from curious eyes… and that she won't ever gossip about it.

Grace isn't keen to duplicate anyone's work, but she doubts Spencer will waste any more of his limited time uncovering further details about Mihail Străjescu. With Boyd out of the building for at least the next couple of hours, she finally takes it upon herself to log onto the Met's intranet and start digging, and when that avenue is exhausted, she accesses several Home Office databases, too. It doesn't take her long to build a sketchy biography of the man, to discover that he was born near the Romanian city of Turnu Măgurele, that as a child he came to England with his father, Nicolae, and that he subsequently spent the rest of his life living in London, much of it working in and around the docks. Nor does it take Grace long to discover that although he never officially married, he spent at least fifteen years living in Muswell Hill with Gavin Chapman's mother, Ruby.

Boyd's natural father? When she discovers a picture of a bearded, solemn-looking Străjescu, apparently taken at some point in the early 'seventies, Grace is absolutely sure of it. The deep eyes and aquiline nose are exactly the same. The father is dark and wiry, and nowhere near as tall and broad-shouldered as the potential son, and as she studies his photograph Grace wonders briefly about Roma blood. She quickly dismisses the thoughts as a flight of fancy. Stick to the facts, that's what all the years working alongside pragmatic police colleagues has taught her, and so she does just that, dutifully transcribing those meagre facts onto a blank sheet of paper. She wonders what Boyd will make of the information. Wonders, too, about his earlier comment about nature versus nurture, wonders whether his possible genetic heritage could help explain some of his wilder extremes of temperament. Maybe that's just fanciful nonsense, too.

"Grace…?" Spencer's voice says.

She looks up to find him standing in her office doorway. "Spence?"

"This guy McMahon that you spoke to, can you give me a rundown…?"

-oOo-

" _Romanian_ …?"

Grace nods, secretly amused by just how bemused Boyd sounds. "Yes."

He drops down onto the couch that's been a permanent feature of his office for almost as long as she can remember and says, "Didn't see that one coming. Străjescu…? Christ, I can't even bloody pronounce it."

"Assuming Chapman's birth certificate is correct," she says, "it's likely that Mihail is your father."

"I got that bit, thanks."

Once again, Boyd seems strangely unruffled, as if they are merely discussing something as trivial and ordinary as the weather, and in the light of the argument following their earlier trip to Newham, his lack of reaction surprises her. He seems to have completely regained the calm equilibrium of the preceding night. Closing his office door to afford them some measure of privacy, Grace asks, "What's got into you? This morning you were champing at the bit, now you don't seem interested."

Boyd looks up at her, and for a split second she thinks she sees a pensive look in his eyes. He sounds composed, though, as he says, "Perspective, Grace. It's all a matter of perspective."

She holds up her hands. "Please don't tell me you're in one of your profound moods – it's been a long day and I really don't think I can cope with it. Where have you _been_ all afternoon, anyway? Not in Newham?"

"Not in Newham. Highgate."

"Ah," Grace says, beginning to understand. "You've been talking to brother James."

"I have," he agrees.

"And…?"

"And… it's all a matter of perspective."

"I'm going back to my office now before I give in to the overwhelming urge to strangle you," Grace says, handing him the large plain envelope that contains all the information she's managed to compile on Străjescu. "Here. Everything I could find on Mihail. Read it, or don't read it. It's entirely up to you."

-oOo-

There's no doubt that everyone in the squad room perfectly understands the old cliché about the calm before the storm. As soon as Spencer takes his preliminary report in to Boyd and returns to his desk to await a decision, they all start to fidget and snap at each other. No-one's happy, least of all Grace. Ever-tactless, Kat says, "Vlad the Impaler was from Romania, wasn't he?"

"Wallachia," Spencer supplies, not looking up from whatever it is he's typing.

"Same thing. More or less."

"For God's sake don't give him any ideas," Eve comments from the edge of the room. "If he starts impaling suspects we're in _serious_ trouble."

Grace understands the reason behind the dark humour, knows how worried they all are that Boyd will – once again – overstep the mark and further endanger the long-term future of the unit. She wants to reassure them, wants to tell them that they are wrong, that he knows where to draw the line… but she can't. There's every chance that he'll do what he so often does and let his heart rule his head, that he will lead them even deeper into the mire of confrontation and controversy, despite everything she's repeatedly tried to tell him. If he does…

Boyd's office door flies open, and it isn't just Grace who jumps. He strides towards them, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, reading glasses dangling in one hand, Spencer's report grasped in the other. His voice is very quiet. "I'm authorising the re-opening of the Epping Forest case."

Grace feels her heart sink. Everyone seems to be looking at everyone else, each of them willing someone else to make the challenge.

Ignoring the rising tension in the room, Boyd continues, "I will be apprising the DAC's office of the situation in the morning, and I will also be informing them that DI Jordan will be acting as the investigation's Officer in Charge. Questions?"

The complete silence is telling. Spencer shakes his head, "No, sir."

"You will keep me informed of all progress," Boyd tells him, "and all requests for additional staff or resources will be approved by me. Understand?"

"Sir."

"Better get on with it, then, hadn't you?" Boyd says before turning on his heel and walking back into his office. The door closes not with a slam but with a gentle rattle.

"Wow," Kat says, looking from Spencer to Grace and back. "Did I just hear that right…?"

-oOo-

"I'm proud of you," Grace says, minutes later, and she means it. "You've done the right thing."

Boyd's answer lacks enthusiasm. "Terrific."

Ignoring his bad-tempered petulance, she asks, "Do you think the DAC will let Spence keep it?"

A dismissive shrug. "Don't see why not. It's not him they're gunning for is it? And there's no-one else out there who's going to be happy to take on a pile of old bones."

"And you're happy to let him liaise directly with Canning Town CID?"

Boyd gives her a look that is so weary it's almost haunted. "Do we _really_ have to keep talking about this?"

Relenting, Grace shakes her head. "No. Did you read the stuff on Străjescu?"

He groans. "I'm not having the best day of my life here, Grace. Enough questions, eh?"

"You look tired," she says after a moment, watching as he runs his fingers slowly through his hair.

"I wonder why." Their eyes briefly lock, the moment of silence heavy with meaning – one that has nothing to do with work, and everything to do with sensual midnight memories. Boyd's voice is unnecessarily gruff when he eventually growls, "Go away; I've got work to do."

"It's gone seven o'clock," Grace points out, ignoring the order.

"Yeah, and the way I'm going it'll be gone midnight before I'm done here," he retorts. "Go away, go home, I really don't care. Just _go_."

"So diplomatic," she snipes.

"Out."

Grace rolls her eyes. "Why do I put up with you? No, on second thoughts, don't answer that. Well, assuming I can be bothered to get up on time, I'll see you tomorrow."

He allows her a slight, tired grin. "'Night, Grace."

In truth, she's not altogether sorry to be summarily dismissed from Boyd's presence. He's not the only one who's tired, and as she pulls on her coat and gathers her things, Grace finds herself looking forward to a long, comfortable, and enjoyably boring evening on her own. After so many years as more-or-less a single woman, re-embracing both the concept and the reality of being half of a steady couple hasn't been easy. Exciting and entertaining, yes, easy, no. Both of them are used to the selfish freedom to do exactly what they want when they want, and working hard to find the necessary compromises is often frustrating and exhausting. No, on balance, she's not sad to be heading home alone.

-oOo-

It's good to have some quiet solitary time, and Grace is perfectly happy to settle on her sofa with a glass of wine, the radio, and a book she's been meaning to finish reading for weeks, but there's also something comforting about the stray tangible traces of someone else that are now evident throughout the house. The masculine razor and shaving foam on the windowsill in the bathroom, the crumpled shirts that have somehow found their way into her ironing pile, the abandoned gold cufflinks on the mantelpiece – all the tiny, inconsequential everyday things that make her smile when she notices them. The soft strains of something light and classical fill the silence and she's calm and content.

A little after nine, the unexpected sound of a knock on the front door startles her. Frowning, she gets to her feet and goes out into the hall. Whoever her late-evening caller is, it's not Boyd. Boyd does not knock; Boyd has a key and he always walks straight in with the nonchalant self-assurance of a man who expects to be welcomed without reserve. If it didn't amuse her quite so much, Grace might well be infuriated by his careless impudence. No, it's not Boyd at her door, she confirms as she opens it. It's Eve.

Hiding her considerable surprise, Grace offers a tentative smile of greeting. "Eve."

"Hi, Grace," the younger woman says, hesitantly returning the smile. "I hope you don't mind… I was on my way home and I thought… Well, to be frank, I thought I should apologise."

Bewildered, she says, "Apologise? What on earth for? Come in; don't stand on the doorstep…"

They drink coffee and they talk, and they both say sorry for things that aren't really their fault. They talk, they laugh, they gossip just a little, and they ignore the clock on the wall that tells them it's getting later and later. It's a long while before Grace finally says, "You've spent quite a lot of time in the Balkans, haven't you?"

Eve nods. "Yes. I'm hoping to go out there again for a few weeks this summer."

"War graves?" Grace guesses, pulling a face.

"You know me too well," Eve tells her with a slight grin. She shrugs, her expression becoming more sombre. "I can't explain it… it just feels like something I need to do."

"I think I can understand that."

"So. The Balkans? This is about Străjescu, I assume?"

"To be honest, it's simply idle curiosity," Grace admits. "You've been to Romania?"

Nodding, Eve says, "Yeah, a couple of times. Bucharest, mainly. Interesting country, interesting people. Wouldn't want to live there, though – lots of serious socio-economic problems, and that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"What do you – " Grace starts, but she's interrupted by the quiet but distinctive sound of the front door being unlocked. She knows who her new visitor is, and from the look of her colleague's face, Eve knows, too. They look at each other, both of them apparently not sure what to say. "Eve…"

"Grace?" Boyd's distinctive voice calls from the hallway.

Eve winces, mumbles an embarrassed, "Sorry."

With no other option, Grace shakes her head in response. "Don't be silly."

He appears in the doorway, shrugging out of his long topcoat and for a second he freezes as his gaze falls on Eve. He recovers quickly, however, manages a gruff, "Eve."

"Boyd."

It's a ridiculous situation, Grace decides. She looks heavenward and gives a deliberate loud sigh. "Busted."

It breaks the awkward tension building in the room. Eve chuckles. "Categorically."

Boyd regards them both with a baffled expression. He gestures towards the hall behind him. "How about I leave quickly and quietly, and you both pretend I was never here…?"

-oOo-

"But you couldn't establish a cause of death for Allen, could you?" Boyd asks, cradling a heavy glass tumbler that still holds a fair amount of whiskey.

Eve shakes her head. "No. We're talking about skeletal remains, after all. I couldn't find anything at all to indicate how he died."

It's a surreal situation, Grace decides. Here they are, the three of them, sitting in her cosy living room as the evening wears on, talking about death and decay as if it's the most natural topic of conversation in the world. Against all the odds Boyd's arm is stretched out along the back of the sofa behind her, his posture unconsciously intimate and ever-so slightly territorial despite the lack of actual physical contact. She's aware of it, and she can see that Eve is, too, but Boyd… Boyd is apparently oblivious. Maybe.

"Exhumation?" he suggests.

"Don't see the point," Eve responds with a shake of the head. "You can apply for a licence if you want, but I'm certain I won't find anything new."

"We'll hold that in reserve, then."

" _Spence_ can hold that in reserve," Grace corrects.

"Christ, do we really have to split hairs?"

"I should go," Eve says, putting her mug down on the little table next to her chair. "I need to get some sleep, and if you two are going to have a marital…"

Boyd scowls. Grace smirks and pats him on the shoulder. "Rise above it, Peter."

He mutters and raises a hand in a half-hearted farewell gesture to Eve as Grace gets up and walks out into the hall with her. Pulling on her coat, Eve nods towards the living-room and murmurs, "He'll be all right about this, won't he?"

"He'll be fine," Grace assures her. "It's not as if he was already here and you caught us… misbehaving."

"I really don't want to think about that," Eve says with an over-emphasised shudder. An uncomfortable hesitation, then, "I kind of knew anyway."

Grace nods. "I guessed as much. It's okay."

"I'm happy for you, Grace. Really. Just… do what you can to look after him, hm? I think this business with the Allen case is going to take it out of him. Can't be easy, can it?"

She shakes her head. "Not at all… maybe you could remind the others about that from time to time?"

"I'll do my best," the younger woman assures her. "'Night, Grace."

"'Night, Eve," Grace responds with a small smile. She watches the younger woman retreat out into the street before closing the front door and returning to the living room.

Still lounging on the sofa, Boyd eyes her with overt suspicion. "Do I want to know what all the whispering in the hall was about?"

"We weren't whispering," Grace tells him, "and no, probably not."

"Hm." A pause. "No clear cause of death's going to be a bit problematic."

Deftly, Grace plucks his now-empty glass out of his hand. "Boyd, it's heading towards midnight, I'm dog tired, and this _isn't_ your case. Come to bed."

He snags her wrist before she can move away, pulls her down next to him on the sofa. "And talking of problems…"

It's not difficult to guess what he's thinking. "Eve, you mean? It'll be fine. She's not the sort to rock the boat, you know that."

"I can do without any more shit from Scotland Yard," Boyd says. "Getting caught knocking off one of my consultants would _not_ go down well."

"So delicately put," Grace complains, before becoming slightly mesmerised by the way he's watching her. Thoughts and questions flit through her mind, but she wisely decides to remain silent. She stares back at him, wondering what it is he sees that seems to hold his attention. Instinct makes her lean towards him. Instinct and attraction, and as their lips meet she forgets about Mihail Străjescu, about Michael Allen and Gavin Chapman, about all of it.

-oOo-

_cont..._


	2. Part 2

**PART TWO**

In its heyday, Moorcroft House must have been a large and prosperous family home, Boyd thinks, looking at the solid, double-fronted façade. It's set back a little from the road behind a high, straggly hedge, and although several of the windows are boarded-up, and several more are broken, enough of its faded Edwardian splendour remains to hint strongly at its past glory. Looking at the amount of debris and cheap children's toys strewn across the unkempt lawn and the cracked concrete drive, he can only guess what the neighbours must think of the current state of the place… and of its occupants. Hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, Boyd carefully picks his way towards the shabby front door, not entirely sure he's ready to see what lies beyond it. He doesn't need to knock – as he approaches, the door swings open to reveal a girl of about six or seven, one who regards him in solemn silence.

It often surprises people who don't know him well, but Boyd has something of a way with children. He smiles down at the little girl and says, "Hello. Who are you, then?"

"Magda," the child tells him without hesitation.

Magda Kinney, his memory supplies, one of seven not-all-related children known to be resident at the address. All of them nominally under the watchful eye of Social Services. Instinct and observation tell him what he already knows from the official reports: the child may look a little feral, but she is clean and well-nourished, and her eyes are bright and friendly. As a long-serving police officer, he's seen plenty of children from wealthy, middle-class suburban families that have concerned him far more. Belatedly, he crouches down. "Hello, Magda. My name's Peter. I've come to see Anna."

"I'm Anna," a quiet, wary voice says, and he looks up to see a slim, auburn-haired woman in her late forties. She's eying him with a sullen wariness that hints at deep suspicion. She's not dressed as outlandishly as he expected, but her clothing is still somewhat… unconventional. Lots of coarse natural fibres in clashing bright colours combined with a plethora of mismatched ethnic accessories and homemade jewellery.

Boyd straightens up and extends a hand, not really caring if she takes it or not. "Peter Boyd. We spoke briefly on the phone…?"

"Oh." She hesitates, piercing grey eyes searching his face, and then she grasps his hand for just a second before adding a grudging, "Well, you'd better come in, then."

Inside, the big house is everything Boyd expects. Mould and peeling wallpaper. Evidence of dry rot. Not-very-good murals painted directly onto the damp walls. Clutter, and makeshift furniture; the heavy, sickly smell of cheap incense that doesn't quite cover the pervasive, deeply impregnated smell of marijuana. Crystals and carvings, and faux Middle Eastern rugs; children's toys and at least three small, inquisitive dogs. He's fairly sure that he could make any number of arrests for various theft, drug-related and vagrancy offences, but that's not what he's here for and he chooses not to notice all the things that he's supposed to. Leading him into a big, surprisingly light room at the rear of the house, Anna waves him to a long, threadbare couch draped in a motley array of fabrics and says, "You look like him. Mike, I mean."

Boyd has seen the pictures. He nods. "A little."

"A lot," she contradicts. Settling on a sturdy wooden chair by the open door to the untidy back garden, she lights a hand-rolled cigarette. "So you're a copper, then?"

Making himself a fraction more comfortable on the worn old couch, Boyd asks, "Are you going to hold that against me?"

"Not if you behave yourself," she says, giving him a slight, reluctant smile. "The black guy who came to see us a few days ago – DI Jordan? – we've already told him everything we know."

"I'm here because it seems that Michael was my half-brother," Boyd says, looking her straight in the eye, "not because I'm a police officer."

She snorts. "Why do you think you're not still standing outside on the doorstep?"

Boyd lets his gaze wander the large room for a moment. He doesn't look at Anna as he asks, "What was he like?"

"Gentle," she reflects, her voice fond. "Quiet, a bit of a dreamer. Wouldn't hurt a fly. I think I always knew something terrible had happened to him – he wasn't the sort to just walk out and disappear without a word. We were very happy. Does that surprise you?"

Boyd shakes his head. "No."

"He'd have laughed his head off, if he'd found out that he had a brother who was Old Bill."

"I'm sure," he says. It might be Saturday, he might be off duty and casually dressed, but he still feels awkward and uncomfortable, and too aware of the weight and responsibility of the warrant card in his back pocket. He needs to get to the point, to find out what he can and get out of this place. Accordingly, he says, "Spe… DI Jordan told me you knew Străjescu?"

Anna nods, and Boyd does not miss the way her expression hardens. "A little. We met a few times."

"And…?"

"And what?"

Impatience prickles down Boyd's spine. He forces calm into his tone. "I need to know. I don't know if you can understand that, but I _need_ to know."

She's silent for a moment, then she says, "You said on the phone you were adopted."

"That's right."

"Good people," she guesses. "Nice, middle-class family? Decent school, good education?"

"If you like," he agrees. Her perceptive assessment is very close to the truth.

"You were lucky."

"I was," Boyd admits. It's the truth, and he knows it. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Look, Anna, you may not like what I do, you may not like whatever it is you think I stand for, but take away the warrant card and I'm just an ordinary guy who drinks a bit too much, works too hard, and screws up far too often."

"Are you married?"

"Divorced," he tells her, realising as he does so that he doesn't remember the last time he spared Mary a conscious thought. He should call her, maybe. Check she's still coping with…

"Kids?"

His reply is gruff. "A son."

"And is he going to follow in his father's footsteps and become a copper?" Anna asks.

Despite the too-familiar stab of pain, Boyd doesn't flinch. He says, "He died. Almost two years ago, now. Overdose."

The look of shocked surprise on her face isn't feigned. "God, I'm sorry."

"He ran away from home, and he was living rough on the streets for years," Boyd tells her, quiet and deliberate. "While I was doing everything possible to find him, he was getting the money for his next fix however he could. Theft. Prostitution. The usual story. Then he made the mistake of trusting the wrong person, and he died. Tell me again how lucky I am."

Anna gazes steadily at him. "Point taken. Never judge a book by its cover."

"Look," he says after a long, awkward pause, "I don't know you, you don't know me, but I'm guessing neither of us are bad people. Shall we start again?"

She nods. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

"Tell me about Străjescu."

Anna shrugs as she grinds out her cigarette in a misshapen pottery ashtray. "I didn't know him well. I told you, we only met a few times. After Mike's mother died he tracked Mihail down. They met up, and Mike wanted to get to know him better, but it never really worked out. Then the old man died, and that was pretty much the end of that."

"'Pretty much'?"

"Mihail had a girlfriend."

"Ruby?" he guesses, thinking of Gavin Chapman.

She shakes her head. "Carol. Younger than him by _far_."

Not Chapman's mother, then, Boyd thinks. "Children?"

"A girl, Louise," Anna tells him. "She was about nineteen when Mihail died. A few years older than my daughter. I think Mike felt a bit responsible for her after that. Half-sister, and all that."

"Did you meet her?"

"Only once." A brief pause, then, "Carol… well, she didn't approve of our lifestyle. Mike wasn't bothered about it, but _I_ was. I wasn't prepared to put up with her rude, spiteful remarks."

"And then Michael disappeared and there was no point in keeping in touch?" Boyd guesses.

"Something like that."

Digesting the new information, he asks, "Why didn't you tell DI Jordan any of this?"

Another shrug. "He didn't ask."

"Oh, come _on_ …"

"No, I mean it," Anna says, sharp and defensive. "He was asking about _Mike_ , not Mihail. How was I supposed to know what the hell was relevant and what wasn't?"

She has a point, Boyd concedes. Instead of pursuing the matter further, he asks, "Does Carol have a surname?"

"Kemp."

"And where can I find Carol Kemp?"

"Edmonton," Anna tells him without hesitation. "Fairfield Road somewhere. I don't remember the number. If she's still living there."

It's both less and more information than Boyd had hoped for when he first telephoned her. "Thank you."

She tilts her head a fraction to one side and says, "Your DI Jordan… he said there was another son? Apart from you and Mike, I mean."

Gavin. Every bit as dead as Michael. Boyd nods. "So it seems."

Anna pulls a face. "Four kids by four different women, eh?"

"And counting," is his dry response. He looks around the room again, too many thoughts and questions whirling through his head.

"Whatever it is you're looking for in your life," she says, watching him, "you won't find it in Mihail's grave, you know."

Frowning, he returns his attention to her. "You're sure about that, are you?"

"No," Anna admits with a heavy sigh. "Look, Peter, you seem like a decent sort of guy, so my advice to you is to leave it alone. All of it. The old man's been dead and buried for over a decade… what's the point of chasing ghosts?"

Aware of the irony, he says, "That's what I do. I chase ghosts and I make them tell their stories."

She looks puzzled. "Why?"

"For the living," Boyd tells her. It seems important to make her understand. "My team will find out what happened to Michael, why he never came home that day. He had a daughter."

"Summer," Anna murmurs.

"She deserves to know what happened to her father."

"I _told_ you – we've already given Jordan all the information we have."

Boyd shakes his head. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about what a friend of mine would call… closure."

The sharp grey eyes study him with a startling intensity. "And that's what you're looking for, is it? Closure?"

"I don't know what I'm looking for," he admits, resisting the strong impulse to sigh. "A couple of weeks ago I had no bloody idea who my biological father was, and no interest in finding out. But…"

"Things change?" Anna suggests. She gestures at the large, shabby room. "Look around you. Look at this place. Michael never lived here, but _this_ is who he was. He wasn't interested in an ordinary nine-to-five existence – none of us were. I expect there's some politically-correct way to describe the way people like us live, isn't there?"

"'Alternative lifestyle'," Boyd tells her, deadpan. "It covers a multitude of sins in official reports."

"I bet. You're not allowed to call us squatters or drug-taking hippies?"

"Not anymore, I'm afraid."

Her answering smile is quick and sympathetic. She says, "You're one of the good guys, aren't you, Peter?"

"I like to think so."

Anna is silent for a few moments. She stares out of the window, her expression empty. Lost. Eventually, she looks at him again and says, "Mihail was Kalderash. Mike became fascinated by the whole Roma thing. He saw it as his… birth-right… if you like."

"Kalderash…?" Boyd questions. The word is vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place it.

"Căldărari," she says with a shrug. "Romanian gypsies. Doesn't matter what you want to call them. If you _really_ want to know about Mihail Străjescu, maybe that's where you should start."

-oOo-

He's not known for his patience, of course, but Boyd is, surprisingly, very good at this kind of painstaking background research. It's not something he spends much time doing nowadays – he has a whole team of people he can delegate such mundane tasks to after all – but he's still eminently capable of it, particularly when the basement is empty and quiet, when there's no-one to disturb him with questions about this and requests for that. When his head starts to ache because it's bursting with facts and figures, he leaves his office and wanders the silent squad room, eventually settling on the edge of Spencer's desk to stare thoughtfully at the big Perspex evidence board, a third of which is now dedicated to the investigation into Michael Allen's death. The juxtaposition of the smiling photograph of the live, smiling Michael and the official laboratory photographs of his skeletal remains bothers Boyd rather more than he might have expected.

There is unquestionably a familial resemblance between himself and the dead man, but the relationship between them still feels abstract, intangible. Brother-by-blood, not brother-by-experience, that's the only way Boyd can describe it. Two totally different men who never met, who were never even aware of each other's existence, sons of the same father. Boyd's thoughts stray briefly to Chapman, the third member of the accidental triumvirate. The CID investigation is still ongoing, but no-one's going to be surprised if it turns out Chapman died as the result of a drunken squabble with another of the big city's homeless population. And now it seems that Străjescu had a daughter, too.

Brutal as it may seem, however, Boyd's interest is focused less on any of his potential half-siblings than on their father.

He's still deep in thought gazing at the evidence board when the phone in his pocket starts to ring. A brief glimpse of the caller identification on the display only confirms what he suspects. He answers with a quiet, "Grace."

"Where on earth are you?"

Her waspish tone suggests she's both worried and irked, and he frowns in response. "Headquarters."

"You do realise that it's gone eight o'clock?"

He hadn't. Surprised, Boyd glances at his watch. She's right. "Christ, how did it get that late?"

"I'm guessing," she says, her tone resigned, "that you'd forgotten all about James? He's just arrived."

He winces. That tone, one of exaggerated quiet and calm, does not bode well. His… brother… might shrug off his tardiness, dismiss it as nothing, just 'Pete being Pete', but Grace won't be so easy to pacify. He wonders how fast he can get home if he risks blues and twos. Not fast enough. "Fuck. Look, tell him that I'm sorry and I'll be there as quickly as I can."

He listens as the message is relayed, hears a muffled reply. A second later Grace's voice says, "He says Eileen's at her sister's so don't break your neck getting here."

Frosty, Boyd thinks. Definitely frosty. He's already heading back to his office. "I won't be long."

"Good," she says, and the line goes dead.

It's going to be a long night, he thinks, shrugging into his jacket.

-oOo-

"Pete was the rebellious one," James says, grinning across the room at Grace, "not me. I was the goody-goody who never got into any trouble."

"He was," Boyd confirms, not fazed by the conversation. "What he's _not_ telling you, though, is that he was just a hell of a lot better at not getting caught than _I_ was."

"That's also true," James agrees with a chuckle, "but _he_ was the one who always came up with the hare-brained schemes in the first place."

Now seated closer to Boyd than she was earlier in the evening before the frost lifted, Grace laughs, clearly delighted by the revelation. "Oh, I can imagine. It's a good thing your parents adored the pair of you."

James's response is characteristically mild. He sips his whiskey and nods. "It is, rather. When Pete was expelled from St. George's I really thought dad was going to have a stroke, but no, the old boy just packed him off down to Devon to spend the summer working on a friend's dairy farm. Two months of getting up at four in the morning every day, and he was practically begging to go back to school. _Any_ school."

"You would've been, too," Boyd accuses without malice. Decades on, he still remembers that long, hard summer. Vividly. Sunburn and blisters, and those hard, never-ending early mornings. With an entirely affected glower, he continues, "Don't let him fool you, Grace – he was a cunning little bastard who got away with murder just because everyone always thought everything was _my_ bloody fault."

James chuckles again, raises his half-empty tumbler in salute. "Good times."

"They were," Boyd agrees, for a moment not seeing the short, stocky, middle-aged solicitor with the receding hairline, but the robust, cheerful fair-haired boy who always did his absolute best to follow him everywhere, whether he liked it or not.

"You want some advice from your annoying kid brother?" James inquires, setting his glass aside.

Not at all surprised, Boyd shrugs. "Go on, then."

"Grace is right – family is about far more than blood. Forget about DNA, Străjescu, or whatever his damn name was, wasn't your father. _Douglas_ was."

Patient as he can be, Boyd nods. "I know that."

"So why risk stirring up a hornets' nest?" his brother demands.

"Wouldn't you, if you were in my position?"

James shrugs his shoulders. "I honestly don't know. Finding out… it's never interested me."

"Nor me," Boyd points out, "until now."

"The two dead men – "

"Allen and Chapman."

" – they deserve justice, no question, but beyond that…" James shakes his head, then continues, "Pete, we grew up together. You've always been my big brother, the one who stole my toys, got off with the girls I fancied, and always, always looked out for me even when I was being a complete idiot. It's never mattered that there's no biological link between us."

"It still doesn't," Boyd insists, and he means it. He can't remember a single day when James wasn't some part of his life. Children, teenagers, adults… they've always been close, even if not always living in each other's pockets. It was James who was best man at his wedding, James who offered him shelter when the marriage subsequently collapsed. James who helped him carry Luke's coffin…

"Well, I agree with Grace," the man himself says, "no good is going to come of delving into the past."

"Why do people always say that?" Boyd wonders aloud.

"Because it's usually true," Grace answers. "Boyd… Peter, you have no _idea_ where this could lead. How much heartache it could cause. And not just for _you_."

"There's another reason you should think very seriously about pursuing this," James says, before he can respond. "If this woman Anna is right and Străjescu really _was_ a Romanian gypsy… Well, you know as well as I do how unpopular they are nowadays in just about every major city in Europe. Do you really want some of that stigma rubbing off on you?"

Incredulous, Boyd says, "Oh, come _on_ …"

"I'm serious," James insists. "I'm not saying they're _all_ thieves and beggars – "

"Good."

" – but there's no doubt that's how they're perceived by the general public. The police, too. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Words fail me, they really do. Fuck's sake, Jamie…"

His brother doesn't back down. "I still do a lot of _pro bono_ work, Pete. Do you know how much time I spend dealing with transient Eastern Europeans who've been charged with petty theft, vagrancy and other such offences?"

Temper rising, Boyd replies, "I'm not denying there's a problem, I'm simply objecting to – "

"I think," Grace cuts in, her timing impeccable, as ever, "that you're both getting side-tracked away from the main issue. It doesn't matter what nationality or race Străjescu was, or what culture he came from, what matters is who his children _are_ or _were_."

"She's right," James says after a moment. "If you need to know for sure whether or not he was your father, well, I'll support you in that any way I can, Peter… but once you know, I'd strongly advise you to leave it at that."

"Noted," he growls.

"Is there any way you can get hold of a DNA sample?" James inquires.

Boyd shakes his head. "Not without an exhumation."

A thoughtful, considering look comes his way. "That wouldn't be too difficult to arrange, presumably, given that you have two men who've died in suspicious circumstances who are both allegedly related to him."

"It could be done," Boyd agrees, but his mind baulks at the thought.

"Seems to me that's your answer, then," James says, picking up his glass again. "Dig him up and test his DNA."

"Jesus _Christ_ …"

James gives him another thoughtful look. "Not like you to be so squeamish, big brother."

"You've seen the bloody photograph – he's my damn _father_."

"No," his brother states, "he's _not_. Your father – and mine – was a Scottish solicitor named Douglas Boyd."

-oOo-

The bath water is beginning to drop below a comfortable temperature, but it's not yet cool enough to encourage Boyd to leave his quiet, relaxing temporary haven. Instead of moving, he lounges still and silent beneath the slowly disappearing foam and studies the smooth white ceiling above him. Without the bathroom's harsh main light switched on, it doesn't look white. Maybe a sort of light honey colour. There's an incipient spider's web in the corner that his formidable, sharp-eyed twice-weekly cleaner will sweep away the moment she spots it. No sign of the web's eight-legged occupant. The absence doesn't bother him. Boyd is not afraid of spiders. He's not keen on snakes, and as for rats… but he's not at all bothered by spiders.

A quiet tap on the bathroom door makes him stir enough to cause a few lazy ripples. "It's not locked."

Grace, dressed in the long blue silky housecoat thing that inexplicably materialised in his bedroom a couple of months ago, appears on the peripheral edge of his vision. He turns his head, watches as she settles on the edge of the bathtub and hands him a glass containing what appears to be a pleasingly liberal measure of Scotch. As he murmurs his thanks, she says, "You'll catch a chill if you lie there all night."

He smirks. "Careful, Grace, your frustrated maternal instinct is showing."

"I know." She sighs. "It's so much harder to keep suppressed when you're behaving like a child."

"It's nothing," he assures her, realising that what feels perfectly normal to him might seem a genuine cause for concern to her. "Christ, you should have heard us arguing when we kids. We'd go at it hammer and tongs for hours. He's an obstinate little fucker, my brother."

"And you're not?" she inquires, eyebrows raised.

"Ah, but I have right of seniority."

She snorts, but doesn't comment further. Instead, she asks, "So what was she like? Anna Dawson?"

"Pretty much what you'd expect," he says, thinking of the ethnic jewellery and the bright colours. "Great legs, though."

"Not that you were looking, of course."

He grins at her. "You know me, Grace."

"I do, indeed," she says, the eye-roll implicit. She sounds more amused than vexed as she inquires, "Did you flirt with her?"

"No," he tells her, not needing to lie. "I was on my very best behaviour."

"If you say so." Grace tilts her head a fraction. "Tell me you're not going to go and see Carol Kemp without consulting Spence first?"

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"Liar," she accuses. "So? Gut instinct?"

"Gut instinct…" Boyd echoes, thinking about it, "is that maybe it wasn't just _Louise_ Michael wanted to stay in contact with after Străjescu died."

Grace frowns. "Carol?"

"Maybe. Anna said she was considerably younger than Mihail."

"Well, if you're right, that could have made things… complicated."

He nods, says, "And in my experience, things getting too complicated can be a very good motive for murder."

"Yes," Grace agrees, "but in a case like this, without further evidence or a good suspect the motive remains entirely hypothetical."

"I knew you were going to say that," he tells her, stretching his legs as he watches her watching him.

Something changes in her expression. It's very subtle, but he notices. She says, "Get out of the bath and come to bed, Boyd."

He gives her his most disarming smile. "Want to wash my back for me first…?"

-oOo-

"Carol Kemp," Spencer announces, writing the name on the evidence board in bold yellow letters. "Still very much alive, and living in Edmonton."

"Got around a bit, didn't he?" Kat says. "Străjescu, I mean. Four kids by four women – that we know of."

Almost word for word what Anna said, Boyd thinks, seated in his customary chair, Eve on one side of him, Grace on the other. It's the latter who says, " _Potentially_."

"Grace is right," he says, before anyone else can comment. He doesn't look at Kat. "Let's separate what we _know_ from what we _think_ we know. Facts not assumptions."

"Three otherwise apparently unconnected men, all with the same father," is Eve's immediate response. "Same grandfather and related fathers – brothers or half-brothers – is also possible, genetically-speaking, but much more unlikely under the circumstances."

"And the link to Străjescu?" Boyd prompts, watching Spencer drawing connecting lines and multi-directional arrows on the board. It's… odd… to say the least, to see his own name written up there. Unsettling, too. _Peter Boyd, born Nicholas Clarke, Shoreditch; father unknown._

"Chapman's birth certificate," Grace supplies.

"If, then," Eve murmurs. Boyd glances at her, and she adds, "Conditionals. _If_ Chapman's birth certificate is accurate, _then_ Mihail fathered all three of you."

"I think we all worked that out for ourselves, Eve," he says, "but thanks for your input."

She grins at him. "Anytime."

"Do we have any reason to doubt Chapman's birth certificate?" Kat inquires, looking round at the room. Boyd gazes at her without saying a word as she continues, "I mean, there's a strong family resemblance between all of them, isn't there?"

"That sort of reasoning wouldn't ever stand up in court," Spencer tells her, "and you know it."

"Does it matter, anyway?" Eve asks. She shrugs and clarifies, "As far as the investigation into how Michael Allen died goes, I mean."

Boyd spares her a brief glance. "Maybe, maybe not."

"We need to interview Carol," Spencer says, seeming to make up his mind. "Grace, will you come with me to do that?"

Boyd isn't surprised that she doesn't look at him before answering, "Of course, if you want me to."

Apparently satisfied, Spencer nods. "Good. Well, I think that's about it for now."

"Let's talk about Mary Trent and the Knightsbridge robbery," Boyd says, before his subordinate has a chance to send everyone about their appointed tasks. "Kat, the floor is yours…"

-oOo-

"Sit down, Spence," Boyd instructs, just a few hours later, indicating the empty chair on the other side of his desk. "So, the Allen case…"

Spencer sits with the mechanical stiffness of a man who suspects he's not going to enjoy the conversation ahead. Not bothering to prevaricate, he says, "Is this about Carol Kemp?"

"No," Boyd assures him. "Go and interview her, I'm not going to interfere."

"Good. So…?"

"Străjescu," he says. He takes a deep breath, but for his own benefit, not Spencer's. Still not sure he's doing the right thing, he continues, "I want you to apply for an exhumation licence."

" _What_?"

"You heard me."

Spencer looks incredulous. "You're not serious?"

"Can you think of another way to conclusively prove he was Allen's father?" Boyd asks, trying to ignore the nagging tug of guilt and unease that doesn't seem to want to leave him alone.

"And _yours_?" A sharp, bitter riposte.

Too perceptive. Boyd regards the younger man with the kind of steady calm that is hard-won. "I need to know, Spence. Surely you can understand that."

Spencer's expression is frozen somewhere between astonished and appalled. "But exhumation… Christ."

Boyd understands the reluctance, the repugnance. Still feels both himself. And more. Gazing across the width of his desk, he says, "It… would not be beyond the scope of the current investigation."

Spencer shakes his head. "I'm trying to find out how the man came to be buried in a shallow grave in Epping Forest, not who his damn father was. _Sir_."

"Minimum interference," Boyd presses. "Străjescu died in hospital from heart disease, no suspicious circumstances. We don't need to remove the… remains… for examination. Do it overnight; open the grave, get Eve to take a few samples, and leave it at that. All very dignified and low key."

"No," Spencer says, hard and obstinate. "I can't justify it."

Boyd keeps his tone as quiet and level as he can. "It's not a request, Spence."

"With all due respect, sir, this is _my_ investigation."

"I'm well aware of that." Boyd shakes his head, battling his impatience. Decides to try another approach. Steepling his fingers, he hesitates before asking, "How long have we known each other now?"

A stray muscle in Spencer's cheek twitches, betraying rising stress. He grinds out, "Is this where you give me the 'if it wasn't for me you'd still be stuck somewhere in the arse end of South London investigating vehicle crime' speech?"

"All this time," Boyd says, "and you still haven't quite managed to get rid of that chip on your shoulder, have you, Spence? Making DS wasn't enough to make you believe that people respected you, so you set your sights on DI… but even then nothing really changed, did it? You're still every bit as angry and defensive today as you were when MacFarlane kicked you out of his bloody team all those years ago."

"Sir." It's surly, and not an acknowledgement of the truth, not really.

"Don't 'sir' me," Boyd barks at him, the very last threads of his patience starting to fray, "and don't even _think_ of accusing me of trying to manipulate you into doing me some kind of a favour. I'm not _asking_ you to arrange for an exhumation, I'm _telling_ you to, as your superior officer and as head of this unit."

"And if I refuse?" Spencer demands, getting to his feet.

"To obey a lawful order?" Boyd asks. "You already know the answer to that, Detective Inspector."

There's a short, strained silence. It's broken by a harsh, "Will you be informing the DAC of your decision to insist on an exhumation, sir?"

"For fuck's sake, Spence…" Boyd draws another long, deep breath. Tries to control his rapidly rising temper. "Just _do_ _it_ , man. If you're running the investigation properly, there should be enough decent paper trails to cover your arse against _any_ eventuality, up to and including questions from the bloody Commissioner himself."

"Or the IPCC?"

Right on cue, Grace appears in the office doorway. "What on earth's going on? We can hear the two of you on the other side of the squad room."

"Ask _him_ ," Boyd growls, standing up. "I'm going out for a couple of hours."

-oOo-

Despite his advanced age, Solomon Moscovici's large hazel eyes are still bright and intense, and there's no hint of frailty in the gently-accented voice that says, "Turnu Măgurele?"

Seated on a wooden chair that is a little more comfortable than it looks, and ignoring the continual background sound of chatter outside in the corridor beyond the old man's room, Boyd nods. "Yes. Close to the Danube."

"I know where it is, boy," is the immediate and tetchy reply. "Not many gypsies there. Not anymore. Not many Jews, either, come to that."

"C'mon, Solly," Boyd says, gazing at the wizened old man resting comfortably by the single large window with its enviable view of the private care home's big, well-tended rear garden. "You're the only person I know who might be able to answer some of my questions. Have a heart, eh?"

The elderly man grunts. "How's your father? Crafty old _zhulik_ still owes me money."

Boyd doesn't mistake craftiness for confusion. "Still as dead as the proverbial. Well?"

Soloman chuckles, a rasping, wheezing sound that seems to rattle through the small room. "And your beautiful mother?"

"Considering taking a round-the-world cruise with her latest well-heeled gentleman friend."

"How delightful."

"She's _eighty-four_ , Solly," Boyd says, not sure if it's a complaint or not. "I live in mortal terror of going round there to tidy the damned garden and finding them in a highly compromising position – both as dead as bloody doornails."

Again, the graveyard chuckle, louder and more enthusiastic this time. "The righteous indignation of the young."

"Hardly," Boyd says with a grimace. He can't remember the last time he thought of himself as young. At least two decades ago, probably. He returns to the point of his visit. "Would there be any records left from that time, do you think?"

Soloman's thin shoulders hunch in a shrug. "With gypsy families, who knows? If the family were deported to Transnistria after 'forty-two, they should be on the official lists. Now you tell me something, Little Peter – why does a London policeman want to know of such things, hm?"

Age hasn't dulled his father's old friend's mental acuity, Boyd reflects. He chooses his words with care. "My unit is looking into the unexplained death of a man whose alleged father came to England with _his_ father just before the war."

"Roma?"

He nods. "So we believe."

"And that matters?" Soloman asks, his gaze sharp and considering.

Boyd understands. Born a Romanian Jew in the 'thirties, the old man understands too well the insidious nature of persecution; how it starts, and where it can lead. He says, "Everything matters until proven otherwise, Solly."

A slight smile. "There speaks the son of a lawyer."

" _Solicitor_ ," he corrects. "The old man was very particular."

Soloman nods. "Yes he was. And I – and my family – have never forgotten his many kindnesses. Escaping the Nazis was not the last challenge we had to face."

Boyd nods again. Soloman's been part of his life for as long as he can remember, and there's never been a time when he didn't know at least something about the terrible tragedies the old man has faced. "I know."

Eyes nowhere near as dark as his own study him with thoughtful curiosity. "What aren't you telling me, boy? I've known you since you were a fierce little scrap who wasn't content to crawl when he thought he might possibly be able to walk. I know when you're hiding something."

Boyd doesn't doubt it. Since childhood, Soloman Moscovici has been a wise, steady presence on the peripheral edges of his family. The good friend who was treated as a surrogate uncle, the one who gave advice without criticism or judgement, and who was always welcome at the dinner table. There's no point in lying to him. "The father – Străjescu. We have DNA that…" He stops, starts again with, "We have _evidence_ – "

"I know what DNA is," Soloman snaps at him. "I was a GP here in London for forty years, in case you've forgotten."

"Sorry." Boyd meets the disgruntled gaze coming his way and continues, "I think… I think that he might be my father, Solly. My _biological_ father."

"I see."

Deflated, he grumbles, "That's all you've got to say? 'I see'?"

"What should I say?" the old man asks, gesturing at nothing. "You're a grown man, Petrică; you know your own mind. If you want to search for such things, I should tell you otherwise?"

A continuing nagging edge of guilt makes Boyd say, "I've _never_ been interested in searching. Neither has Jamie. But this… it just fell into my lap."

"There _were_ Roma families in and around Turnu Măgurele," Soloman announces after a moment of considered silence. "Settled _and_ nomadic. Some drifted away across the river from time to time, even before the war. From Bulgaria onto Greece, maybe, and from there with the right papers, who knows? The streets of London are paved with gold."

"If only that were true, eh?"

Soloman is watching him with expressionless calm. " _Sângele apã nu se face_."

A bright, inquisitive boy with a good ear for such things, Boyd picked up enough small scraps of Soloman's native language in his childhood to get the gist of far more that was said than the adults around him probably realised, but he can't accurately translate the unfamiliar phrase. "What?"

"'Blood's thicker than water'," the old man supplies. "That's what they say, isn't it? But then so's a fine Single Malt, in my opinion."

"Meaning?" Boyd inquires.

"Your father loved you, and he was incredibly proud of you, but I don't think he ever really _understood_ you. Your temper, your stubbornness, your independent streak. James was always calmer, much more tractable… far easier to understand." A heavy, troubled sigh. "That's why you've always secretly felt like an outsider, Little Peter. Not because you were adopted, or because your parents didn't pamper you the way they did your brother. Because you were _different_. Strong-willed, wild."

He recognises that there's at least some truth in Soloman's unexpected words. Trying not to sound sullen, he says, "I always tried to be what he wanted, Solly, you know that."

"You can force a round peg into a square hole, but it will never fit properly. Best leave it to be what it is. Your father knew that."

"Maybe," Boyd admits, thinking of the number of times his rebellious antics as a teenager drew little more than a gentle, sorrowful shake of the head from the man in question. Punishments were fair and proportional, and never given without careful explanation, he remembers. Censure, when it came, was always firm and patient, never cruel or belittling. It's a painful, humbling thought, but perhaps if he'd been more like Douglas in his dealings with his own son…

"You think you might have found an answer to the question you've been asking yourself your entire life, don't you?" Soloman guesses, his voice quiet and gentle. "' _Why_ am I different?'"

"I…" Boyd closes his mouth again, not able to mount a coherent defence.

"Petrică," Soloman says gently, "Little Peter, you are what you are. Your parents loved you. It's enough. Your life is your own – it makes no difference whether your grandparents came from Edinburgh or Bucharest."

It's the kindest, wisest, and most soothing thing Boyd has heard since he first learned about his genetic connection to Michael Allen. He nods. "Thank you."

The old man grunts. "You want I should tell you otherwise?"

"No." Boyd stands up and glances around the comfortable little room one last time before saying, "Try not to die any time soon, Solly. There's someone I want you to meet before you do."

Soloman sits up a little straighter. "A woman?"

"A woman," Boyd agrees, hiding his amusement at the sudden hint of excitement. "Grace."

" _Mazel tov_. Well, don't leave it too long, boy, or you'll be bringing her to my funeral."

-oOo-

Grace. Standing right in front of him, her blue eyes sparking with barely contained fury as she bites out, "If you can't see that this time you've gone _way_ too far, Boyd…"

He's glad the door to her refurbished office is closed, and even more glad that the squad room beyond is empty. On the defensive and not liking it, he growls, "It's a perfectly legitimate decision."

"Rubbish," she snaps. "Nothing we've discovered up to this point indicates that Michael's parentage has _anything_ to do with how or why he died. This proposed _exhumation_ ," the disgusted way she stresses the word not lost on him, "is _nothing_ to do with the investigation and _everything_ to do with _you_."

He bridles at her tone. "I disagree. Two murdered men, apparently related? How is formally establishing the nature of that relationship beyond the scope of the investigation?"

"That would be a much more compelling argument if you didn't have such a strong vested interest in the results," Grace says, shaking her head. "For God's sake, Boyd… Opening up the man's grave just to satisfy your curiosity? Why can't you see how wrong that is?"

Stung, he retorts, "Why can't _you_ see that confirming that Străjescu was the father of both Allen _and_ Chapman could open up dozens of new possible leads?"

"But that's _not_ why you're doing it, is it?" she counters. "You're doing it because you want to know if he was _your_ father, too."

"Grace – "

"You're becoming unhealthily obsessed with him," she interrupts before he can attempt to defend himself. "Can't you see that? So what happens if you go ahead with this… travesty… and you find out that yes, you're his son, too? What actually changes? What do you do next, Boyd? Go charging off to Bucharest looking for an extended family that has no clue who you are, or even that you exist?"

"Don't be bloody ridiculous," he snarls over his shoulder as he starts to prowl the room. "Besides, even if I _did_ , it's not likely to get me very far, is it? Do you _know_ what happened to Romania's gypsy population during the war?"

"I can guess," she replies, quieter now. "But what concerns me right now is _you_ , Boyd. You're not behaving rationally."

"In _your_ opinion. Which, I may say, counts for – "

"Stop it," Grace all-but shouts at him. "Turning on _me_ won't help."

Boyd is about to roar back at her when something, a painful flash of memory, perhaps, stops him. She's right. Everyday differences of opinion are one thing, but the kind of brutal, bitter arguments that have wounded them both so badly in the past are quite another. He doesn't have the stomach for it anymore. Holding up his hands in a gesture of appeasement rather than unconditional surrender, he says, "All right, all right. I'm sorry."

It seems to help defuse the situation a little. She shakes her head at him. "I warned you, didn't I? I _warned_ you what all this could do to you."

His temper starts to rise again. "So now you're saying 'I told you so'?"

"No," Grace contradicts. "Boyd… Peter… I'm worried about you, that's all."

_Petrică,_ Soloman's voice says in his head, _Little Peter, you are what you are…_

He takes a steadying breath, fights for a measure of calm he doesn't feel. "Tell me about Carol Kemp. That's what I came in here for, not to be torn off a strip."

Grace stares at him for a second, and then sits down behind her desk. "She claims that Louise is not Străjescu's."

"'Claims'?" Boyd says, picking up on her intonation. He settles himself on one of the chairs backed against the glazed partition between the office and the squad room, not quite ready to fully relax.

"Pictures of the girl would strongly suggest otherwise."

"And Allen?" he asks. "What did she say about him?"

"That he was a complete waste of space who was a bad influence on her daughter. I'm paraphrasing."

"And…?"

Grace leans forward a fraction, elbows on her desk. "She admits he was a semi-regular visitor for a while. According to her, after Mihail died she eventually told him to leave them both alone and let Louise get on with her studies, and they never saw him again."

"That sounds a little…"

"…far-fetched?" she suggests. "That's what Spence and I thought."

"So?"

"She's coming in tomorrow to give a formal statement."

"Shake her up a bit and see what falls out?" Boyd suggests, suddenly struck by the strong urge to yawn. He's tired, he realises. Tired, hungry, and more than ready to turn his back on work for the day.

"If you like."

"And Străjescu?" he inquires, wary of returning to the subject, but needing to know. "What did she have to say about him?"

Sorting papers, Grace doesn't look up at him. "They met at work – some cheap wholesale place Deptford way. She didn't skate around the fact that he was nearly thirty years her senior. I got the strong impression that it was something of an alliance of convenience. She was on her own and struggling to make ends meet, and he was in the course of splitting up with Chapman's mother. They moved in together in 'seventy seven, the same year Louise was born."

"But…?" he asks, detecting something telling in her tone.

"She _claims_ she was already pregnant when they met."

"But you don't believe her?" Boyd guesses.

Her head lifts, and she meets his gaze with steady calm. "Not for a moment. However, she maintains that Mihail never asked any questions, so she simply put him down on the birth certificate as the father."

"Plausible, I suppose, but…"

"Yes?" Grace prompts.

Boyd shrugs. "Why make such a point of bringing it to our attention?"

"Good question."

-oOo-

Boyd is startled awake by sudden sharp, unexpected movement and a low whimpering noise that slowly subsides as he battles against the darkness and disorientation. Grace, he realises, the fog clouding his mind clearing. Grace, and Grace's house. She whimpers again, and he knows without having to check that she is asleep and dreaming. Bad dreams. Nightmares, even. She always claims not to properly recall their content when she wakes clammy and frightened, but he's not so sure. Something about the haunted expression that lingers for far longer than a moment or two tells him otherwise. He doesn't push her on the subject, and he won't this time as he moves carefully to draw her against him. Sometimes the contact seems to be enough and she settles without waking, leaving him holding her as he wonders what subconscious fears surface when she's asleep and vulnerable.

This time, it is not enough. She trembles against him, lets out a low moan, and he deliberately tightens his grip enough to cause her to stir. He feels her tense, her body going momentarily rigid, then marginally relax as she mumbles, "Boyd…?"

Always _Boyd_ , never Peter in such moments. As if her confused mind fixes on what it knows best. He kisses her temple, a gentle reassurance, and murmurs back, "I'm here."

More of the tension in her dissipates, but she's still not herself as she shivers and presses close against him. The action does nothing to soothe all Boyd's fierce, protective instincts, and he completely forgets the very last of his lingering irritation with her. Shifting position, he nestles them both into a more comfortable position under the covers, and waits for her to speak. She will, he knows, when she's ready.

She does. "Sorry. For waking you up."

"Doesn't matter. You okay?"

"Yeah… bad dream, that's all."

Linda, Boyd guesses. Linda Cummings and that petrifying abduction from the one place Grace should have been able to feel safe. It still gives him the occasional nightmare, and _he_ wasn't the one gagged, bound, and terrorised. The more tired and unsettled Grace is, the more likely it seems to be that she will have nightmares. Tonight, the fact only adds to Boyd's growing feeling of guilt. She's made it clear how worried she is about him, and he's done precious little to ease her fears. Not knowing what else to say or do, he murmurs, "Relax. Go back to sleep. You're safe."

"What time is it?" she whispers against his shoulder.

"No idea," he admits. He lifts his head to squint at the small illuminated figures on the clock on her side of the bed. It annoys him that they appear a little blurry. "Nearly four, I think."

A quiet but heartfelt groan is the only answer. He sympathises. Another couple of hours and he will be getting up to drive home in search of a shave, a shower, and a change of clothes. It's a game for the young, he decides, dashing between houses at all hours instead of deciding to have done with it all and simply moving in together. One day. Maybe.

"Do you think Carol killed Michael?"

The unexpected question catches him by complete surprise. Frowning in the dark, he says, "I don't know… I've not met her, have I? You think it might be a possibility?"

"I'm not sure."

"Something made you ask the question," he points out, suddenly very awake. "Instinct?"

"Maybe," Grace acknowledges. She puts a hand on his chest, fingers moving slowly and gently against his bare skin. "She seems to be a very… normal… woman. Superficially, at least. No brushes with the law, no documented history of mental health problems. Doesn't immediately come across as odd in any way, shape, or form, but…"

"'But'?"

"I don't know," she admits, sighing. "You should talk to Spence."

"I was intending to," Boyd says. A mild itch on his thigh distracts him for a moment, and then he sighs, too. "Grace?"

"Yes?"

He kisses her shoulder. "Why are we talking about this at four in the damned morning?"

"Sorry." She eases away from him, just a fraction, explaining, "Too hot."

He snorts. "Says the woman who's always complaining about being freezing bloody cold. Poisoning?"

"What?"

"Carol Kemp," he says, rolling onto his back and putting his hands behind his head. "Michael's body was skeletonised by the time it was found. Eve said she couldn't find anything at all to indicate cause of death, remember?"

"True. Care to postulate a motive, Detective Superintendent?"

"Something to do with the daughter?" he guesses.

"Mm. Possible, I suppose." A short pause. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Why are we talking about this at four in the morning?"

-oOo-

"Didn't buy it," Spencer says, removing a photograph from the folder he's holding and dropping it onto Boyd's desk. "Louise Kemp, three years ago. Picture's from her driving licence, so it's not the best, but…"

Looking at the enlarged photograph, Boyd swallows his mouthful of coffee faster than he intended. By sheer effort of will he avoids spluttering as he says, "Fuck."

Again, the family resemblance is striking. The eyes that stare up at him are dark and penetrating, and they give nothing away. Same eyes, same cheekbones. Softer on Louise than on any of her potential half-brothers, but instantly recognisable nonetheless. Spencer says, "See what I mean?"

Shocked, he blurts out, "Christ, she could be my bloody daughter."

"That's exactly what Grace said."

Boyd pushes the photograph away. "So what does Carol have to gain by lying? It doesn't make sense."

"I'll tell you what makes even less sense," Spencer says. " _She_ brought the subject up, not us. We were talking about Allen and the last time she saw him, and out of nowhere she suddenly starts talking about how Louise's father was some drunken one night stand, not Străjescu."

Boyd grimaces. "Well, that's not suspicious at _all_ , is it?"

"She's a bit… twinset and pearls," Spencer ventures. "Reads the Daily Mail, and spends her free time arranging fundraisers for suitably middle class charities."

"And this is the same woman who happily shacked up with a man well over twice her age back in the 'seventies...?"

Spencer nods. "Yeah."

A quiet knock on the door makes Boyd look round. Kat, hovering on the other side of the glass. He waves her into his office, and she steps in with, "Sir? Thought you should know – Canning Town CID have just charged a nineteen-year-old homeless guy with Gavin Chapman's murder."

-oOo-

_cont..._


	3. Part 3

**PART THREE**

It's almost two o'clock in the morning, but Grace can't sleep. She lies alone staring up into the dark, her thoughts never straying far from what's happening less than ten miles away at the City of London Cemetery. By now, she imagines, the screens will be up, the generator will be running and the powerful floodlights will be on. Perhaps the cemetery workers will have already broken ground with their mini-digger. Probably, Boyd, Spencer and Eve will be taking shelter where they can from the steady drizzle that set in mid-evening and has yet to stop. Further away from Străjescu's grave, Kat will be working with the handful of uniformed officers ensuring that no member of the public, a late-night dog-walker, maybe, or a tired but curious shift worker, strays too close to the unfolding grisly scene.

Only once in her entire forensic career has Grace attended an official exhumation. And once, she has always maintained, was quite enough. Recovering human remains from crime scenes and disposal sites is one thing, removing them from the consecrated ground of their final – or not so final – resting places is another. Boyd didn't ask her to attend, and she didn't volunteer. She's worried, of course, about just how traumatic the night's work might prove to be for him, but the whole matter has become such a dangerous and volatile subject that staying away seemed the best solution. For both of them. However bad it is, Boyd won't crack, not in front of the people he commands, and that grim obstinacy will get him through the night. She's sure of it.

If she's wrong, though…

She's _not_ wrong. She knows she's not. If he didn't break down in front of any of them when Luke died, he's not going to do it for a man he may or may not be related to; one he never knew.

He's Străjescu's son. There's really no doubt about it. The photographic proof is compelling, and the results of Eve's tests will only confirm what all of them have come to accept.

She wonders what it will do to his relationship with James. With Audrey.

With _her_.

There's no reason for such a thing to change anything between them, Grace tells herself sternly, fidgeting herself into a more comfortable position. The bed feels big and cold and empty without him. Ludicrous, really, since they don't manage to spend every night together anyway, but tonight she feels his absence keenly. It's strange just how fast she managed to get used to their idiosyncratic status quo, after years of living – very happily – alone. Even stranger how well they fit into each other's lives, given how different they are in so many ways.

If he's Străjescu's son, then Carol's daughter Louise is his sister. Half-sister. His biological kin, anyway. And if Grace knows him at all, which she _does_ , that will mean something to him. He'll want to get to know her, want to include her in his life. Exactly the way Michael Allen wanted to. Before he so suddenly disappeared…

-oOo-

"It was pretty unpleasant," Eve admits, "I won't lie. Middle of the night; rain, mud, and a cheap coffin that had been underground for over a decade. You get the picture."

"Just hearing it described as 'unpleasant' by you, of all people, tells me everything I need to know," Grace replies, pulling a face. They are sitting on the far side of the lab well away from the main door, drinking mid-morning coffee together. It's unusually quiet, their colleagues all being congregated in the squad room for some mandatory training briefing, and it affords them the rare chance to talk undisturbed. Putting down her mug for a moment, Grace asks, "How was Boyd?"

"Pretty subdued, actually," Eve tells her. "I wouldn't say he looked like he was having second thoughts, exactly, but… Well, it's over and done now."

She nods, asks, "How long until you get the results?"

"Give me a chance, Grace."

"Sorry… But…?"

Eve heaves a pointed sigh. "It's a straightforward paternity test – Y DNA STR – so sometime tomorrow, I imagine."

"Boyd, Chapman, and Allen?"

"Yes."

"And Carol's daughter, Louise…?"

"If we had a sample, I could do an autosomal DNA test, I suppose. _Don't_ go giving him ideas, Grace, please."

Grace shakes her head. "I don't intend to. The quicker we can wrap all of this up and move on to something else, the better. For everyone."

Eve sips her coffee for a moment, then asks, "And if Străjescu _was_ his father…? I mean, even if we do find out exactly what happened to Michael and close the case, if that's what the results show tomorrow, none of it's ever really going to go away, is it? Not for Boyd."

Picking up her own mug again, Grace nods. "I know. Believe me, I know."

Eve's gaze is steady and incisive, but there's sympathy in her tone as she says, "Problems on the home front? It's nothing to do with me, of course, but if you need someone to talk to…"

Grace swallows a mouthful of tepid coffee, considering her reply. Not only is Eve a good friend, kind and dependable, but she does, after all, know considerably more than the rest of the team about the true nature of Grace's relationship with Boyd. Has quite literally seen the evidence with her own eyes. At length, she says, "Strange as it may seem, usually we rub along perfectly well together. Outside of work, I mean. At home he's less…."

"Shouty?" An undisguised glint of amusement is clear in Eve's dark eyes.

"I was going to say _focused_ ," Grace corrects her, amused herself, "but all right, I'll let you have 'shouty'. You might not be able to picture it, but he's normally pretty good at keeping his personal life completely separate from his working life."

"But not this time?" Eve guesses.

"Maybe because this time the two have collided head-on outside of his control." Grace sighs, thinks for a moment and then continues, "I really shouldn't be saying any of this, Eve, but the thing you need to understand about Boyd is that he's not as oblivious to his faults as most people think. He questions himself _all_ the time, and he feels terribly guilty about so many of the things that have happened in his life."

"Don't we all?" Eve murmurs.

"Of course," Grace agrees, continuing, "but with Boyd… it's deeper, somehow. More profound. As if he's always looking for reasons for why he's not as good a man as he thinks he should be."

The other woman seems to understand. "Ah ha. And since he has no valid reason to blame his shortcomings on his upbringing or his adoptive parents…"

Grace nods. "It's a bit more complicated than that, but essentially… yes, I think so. Hence the ever-increasing need to know if Străjescu really was his father."

"And again, if it turns out that he was…?"

"I don't know," she admits, "and that frightens me a bit."

"In what way?" Eve asks, sounding both concerned and curious.

"I suppose I'm more than a little worried that he might embark on some kind of..." Unable to think of a suitable word, Grace stops. Resumes with, "That he might go in search of answers that just aren't there."

"Figuratively or literally?"

"Both." She grimaces. "Even James – his brother – thinks he should leave well alone."

Finishing her coffee, Eve gets up from her lab stool. "Wanting to know where we come from is human nature, Grace, you know that."

"But Boyd… doesn't ever do things by halves, does he?"

"You're worried it won't stop at knowing for sure about Străjescu?"

Grace nods. "Exactly. And if he decides to go off tilting at windmills – "

" – where does that leave _you_?" Eve finishes for her. "Or the rest of us, come to that."

-oOo-

There's a small urban park near the unlovely concrete building that houses their headquarters. In truth, it's not much more than a simple enclosed rectangle of mown grass edged with mature London plane trees and bisected by an asphalt path, but it's somewhere to sit and eat a lunchtime sandwich when the weather's fine; somewhere neutral away from sharp ears and prying eyes. Somewhere Grace can relax and gather her thoughts, sometimes alone, sometimes not. Today she is alone, but waiting for her prospective lunchtime companion to join her. Not, by any means, a clandestine meeting, and a very, very long way from a lovers' tryst. Still, she feels a brief surge of happiness as she spots the tall, distinguished figure just passing through the park's southern gates. It's her own private folly, the quiet joy of watching him, one that's doubly entertaining when he's in motion. His head is held high, his shoulders are back, and his long, powerful stride is measured and confident. Handsome and well-dressed, he still manages to look tough and assertive, she thinks, like a man whose youth may well be just a faded memory but whose ability to handle himself certainly isn't in question.

As he starts to close in on her, she smiles and offers, "Cheese sandwich?"

Boyd looks perplexed by the banality, but settles next to her with, "Yeah, go on, then."

Sometimes it's the ordinary, everyday moments that draw them back together, smoothing over the inevitable cracks caused by the daily friction of working together in such a high-stress environment. As they eat, Grace asks, "Have you read Carol Kemp's statement?"

Boyd is demolishing his sandwich with the kind of concentrated, ferocious dedication that tells her that he's skipped more than one meal in the last twenty-four hours. Brushing crumbs off his expensive suit trousers, he mumbles a simple, "Yeah."

Grace waits for him to swallow. "And…? What do you think?"

"Didn't like it."

"God," she says, both infuriated and amused, "it's like trying to get blood out of a stone, talking to you today."

"I'm tired," he admits. He looks it. Tired, drawn, and beleaguered.

"Did you get _any_ sleep?"

"An hour, maybe. We didn't leave the cemetery until gone five." A pause. "Aren't you going to ask me all sorts of irritating psychologist-type questions about how I feel?"

"About the exhumation?" Grace asks. It goes against her nature to continue, "No. What would be the point?"

Boyd gives her a baffled look. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Funny," she says, wiping her fingers. "So? Carol Kemp?"

"Oh." He shakes his head. "There's definitely _something_ she's not saying."

"Spence thinks so, too," she says, glad that for once they are all in agreement. Her mind conjures up a picture of the excessively neat flat, of the tight-lipped, glacial politeness of its owner. Nice clothes, perfect hair and make-up. Sea grey eyes that betray nothing.

"Are you going to interview the daughter?" Boyd asks, interrupting her brief reverie.

"Yes. She's due back tomorrow from a residential training course in Cardiff. We haven't told Carol it's on the cards."

Boyd nods his approval. "Smart move."

Sometimes it's almost a surprise to remember how much things between them have changed. The thought strikes her as she recalls just how often over the years they've sat in the same place discussing work-related issues. She has a notion that perhaps the steady changing of the seasons in the park has marked the gradual evolution of their relationship. Colleagues to friends, friends to lovers. She wonders what the people walking past them think. If, indeed, they even bother to spare them a glance, let alone a thought. A married couple who meet for lunch every day? Workmates who prefer each other's company to eating alone? It doesn't matter, she decides.

"It's weird," she says at length, watching a pair of scraggy pigeons fighting over scraps on the path, "we've been over and over everything we've got, and – Carol aside – there's not a decent potential suspect in sight. Everyone who knew Michael seemed to like him. He seems to have free-wheeled through life just about getting by without ever running up any major debts or making any real enemies."

Boyd glances at her. "Myself, I'd call that deeply suspicious."

Grace can't help chuckling. "That's because you're deeply cynical about the entire human race, Boyd. It _is_ possible for someone to be completely inoffensive, you know."

Screwing up his sandwich wrapper, he says, "Completely inoffensive people rarely end up buried in shallow graves deep in the woods, Grace."

"Well, that's not strictly true, is it?"

He shrugs. "All right, completely inoffensive _men_ rarely end up buried in shallow graves deep in the woods."

"Point taken." She hands him a bottle of water, opens her own. "He's doing a good job, you know. Spencer."

"I know. I wouldn't have let him have it if I hadn't thought he could handle it." Turning his head to look at her, he says, "I was going to suggest we went out for dinner tonight, but I'm just about done in."

"Can't take the pace anymore?" she teases.

Boyd doesn't rise to the bait. "Something like that."

Grace knows an olive branch when she sees one, however, and duly suggests, "How about we get a takeaway instead – on the way home to your place?"

The reply is a cautious, "My place?"

"You can sleep in for a bit longer in the morning," she points out, "and if I'm a tad late for work, I'm sure you'll somehow manage to overlook it."

Boyd tries, and fails, to look disapproving. "That would be blatant favouritism, Grace."

She grins at him. "It would, wouldn't it?"

-oOo-

"Go and answer the door," Grace orders. To reinforce her point, she gives his shoulder a pointless shove that only makes him growl in displeasure. She empathises; it's getting late, they've both had a few glasses of wine, and the big, comfortable sofa was just becoming a very exciting and interesting place to be. Shaking her head at him, she repeats, "Go and answer the door."

"Stop doing that," Boyd grumbles as she pushes him again. "Christ, who the _fuck_ goes round hammering on people's front doors at this time of night?"

"You'll find out in a moment, won't you?"

He growls again and levers himself upright. Mysteriously, several of his shirt buttons appear to have become unfastened. Grace smirks to herself and doesn't enlighten him. Still complaining, he pads away barefoot towards the hall, the determined set of his shoulders making it quite clear how unimpressed he is by the unwanted disturbance. She hopes whoever's outside on the doorstep has a very good reason for being there. If not, they're highly likely to find themselves bouncing all the way back down the steep stone steps that lead up to his front door.

Casually refilling her glass and then his, she listens to the sound of the door opening and waits for the angry barking that's sure to follow. To her surprise, it doesn't. She can hear Boyd's voice – a low rumble – but not what he's saying. His is immediately followed by a much lighter voice – unquestionably female. Frowning, Grace makes a little more effort to hear what's being said, but the acoustics aren't good and she really can't decipher the words. Any moment, she thinks, he will slam the door and march back into the room grumbling. He doesn't. She hears the front door close again, but the voices continue. Whoever the visitor is, it seems she's been invited in.

For a moment, Grace feels an unworthy twinge of something territorial before swiftly castigating herself for it. This isn't her house and she has no right at all to question who Boyd chooses to admit. The thought of an unknown female encroaching on their intimate evening makes her hackles rise, however, and attempting to tell herself she's being stupid doesn't help at all. He's an attractive and charismatic man, no question, and he's never had to do very much to invite female attention. It used to amuse her. Not anymore. The conversation in the hall is continuing and she's tempted to get up and investigate. Boyd won't thank her for interfering, she knows that, so she remains where she is, grimly suppressing the urge to satisfy her curiosity.

The decibel level in the hall is rising. She's not terribly surprised, but it does enable her to finally hear snatches of the exchange. Boyd's voice is all too clear as he raps out, "Calm _down_."

The reply is a loud, clear and very accusatory, " _Don't_ tell me to calm down! This is all your fault!"

It's the spur Grace needs to ignore her common sense. She's on her feet, straightening her clothes and heading towards the hall door almost before she has a chance to think about it. Reaching it, she gets her first glimpse of Boyd's visitor. Tall, slim, and attractive. Late forties or very early fifties, and more than a little unconventional in her mode of dress. She looks vaguely familiar, but Grace is quite certain they've never met. Quietly, she says, "Boyd…?"

Two pairs of eyes settle on her, neither in a particularly friendly manner. The woman speaks first, demanding, "Who's she?"

Grace bristles, but manages to deploy a calm, cool smile. She's about to introduce herself, but Boyd beats her to it with, "My partner, Grace Foley. It's okay – she works for the CCU. In fact, she's working with DI Jordan on the investigation into Michael's death."

"Oh," the woman says. Her eyes, Grace notices, are a light and piercing grey. Sharp, restless eyes that flicker around the long hallway, noting details.

Boyd says, "Grace, this is Anna Dawson. Michael's…"

"… _partner_ ," the woman finishes for him, putting an ironic stress on the word.

That's why she looks familiar, Grace realises. Older than in any of the few pictures she's seen, but yes, unquestionably the same woman. She extends her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Anna ignores her, turns on Boyd again. "Well? What are you going to _do_?"

"There's nothing I _can_ do," he says, "she's a grown woman, Anna. She's not a vulnerable adult, there's no reason to fear for her safety, and she's only been gone for twenty-four hours."

"What's happened?" Grace inquires, more to try to defuse the situation than anything else.

"My daughter, Summer," Anna snaps, a discernible wobble in her voice. " _Mike's_ daughter. She went out last night, and I haven't seen her since…"

And then she bursts into tears.

-oOo-

"She's nearly _thirty_ , Grace," Boyd mutters to her, his back to the woman sitting forlornly at the sleek breakfast bar that juts out into the long, narrow kitchen. "What do you _expect_ me to do? She's probably staying over at a boyfriend's place, or something."

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she counters with, "According to Anna she doesn't _have_ a boyfriend."

A quiet snort. "Oh, and you always told your parents about everything that was going on in your life, did you?"

"Well, no, but…"

"But _nothing_ ," he says. "You think I don't feel for the poor bloody woman, Grace? _Me_ , of all people?"

Luke, Grace thinks. So much is always about Luke, in the end. Trying a different approach, she says, "She's your _niece_ , Boyd. You may not yet have conclusive proof that Străjescu was your father – but you've seen the DNA results Eve _does_ have and Michael was _definitely_ your brother."

" _Half_ -brother." She hears him inhale, slow and deep, then exhale just as carefully. "Look, Grace, if I thought I could justify doing something to help, then I would. You _know_ that. But the sad truth is that adults go missing every day in this country, and a good number of them either turn up alive and well after a few days with no idea what all the fuss has been about, or are eventually found living somewhere else with their own good reasons for why they did a sudden disappearing act. It's a question of prioritising police resources. If she doesn't show up in a few days…"

"What about," Grace says, an idea forming in her mind, "if she was a person of interest in an active investigation?"

"'A person of interest'? When did we cross the Atlantic?"

"Semantics, Boyd," she growls, annoyed by his pickiness. "You know what I _mean_. If she was someone we wanted to interview regarding what happened to her father, then…"

Boyd folds his arms across his broad chest. "You know that thin ice you keep warning me about, Grace? Well, it's getting thinner by the bloody second."

"It would be a valid reason to look for her," Grace insists, getting a mug out of the cupboard above the kettle. She busies herself making tea for Anna, avoiding his intent, if impassive gaze.

He shakes his head. "Out of my hands, Grace. You can run it past Spence, see what he says, but I doubt he'll tell you anything different."

Stirring vigorously, she says, "This isn't like you. Not at _all_. What happened to act first and worry about the consequences later?"

Boyd's heavy, irritable sigh is audible. "This really isn't the time for _any_ of us to be stepping out of line, Grace; trust me. We're on a bloody knife edge as it is. Now that the Smith woman's been promoted, you can bet the Commissioner will be constantly drip-fed snide comments about how costly the CCU is to maintain, how dangerous allowing us so much autonomy is, and heaven knows what else."

"What _is_ it with you and Maureen?" Grace demands, then holds up a firm hand. "No, actually, I really don't want to know. Forget about the rulebook for a moment – what does instinct tell you to do?"

"You have to ask?" Boyd questions, the look he gives her more than pointed. Then he's suddenly in motion, pacing towards Anna, his voice taking on smooth, professional neutrality as he asks, "Anna, what exactly did Summer say to you, just before she left?"

"I _told_ you," Anna retorts. "That she thought getting my hopes up about finding out what really happened to Mike was a really bad idea. That the past was better left alone. It wasn't an argument; we didn't fight."

"Why is Summer still living with you? You said she's got qualifications, a decent job…"

"…so why the hell is she living in a hippie squat?" Anna challenges.

"Here," Grace says, joining them and handing over a steaming mug of heavily sweetened tea. "I think what he _actually_ means is why is she still living at home at her age?"

The striking pale grey eyes settle on her. "She moved back in with us about eighteen months ago. Before that, she was living with her long-term boyfriend, Paul. When they split… well, it was his flat. And _no_ , I checked – he hasn't seen her for months."

"What about her other friends?" Boyd inquires, leaning on the breakfast bar.

"Do you really think," Anna demands, "that I would've gone to all the effort of finding out where you lived – which was no mean bloody feat – and then trekked halfway across the damn city to talk to you face-to-face if I hadn't tried _everything_ else first? No-one's seen her, Peter. She's just… vanished."

-oOo-

"Will you please just _relax_ ," Grace almost pleads. They've been in bed for almost half-an-hour, but Boyd, who earlier looked on the verge of passing out from sheer exhaustion, has done nothing but talk and fidget since lying down. It's a pattern she recognises, a natural adrenaline-fueled hyperactivity that takes over when he should be too tired to function, but needs to stay focused on whatever task is at hand. "There's nothing more you can do tonight, so – "

"What if something _has_ happened to her?" he interrupts. "What if – "

"Stop," she commands. "Peter, _stop_. Take a deep breath. Relax. Look at me. _Look_ at me."

He does, his dark eyes reflecting the light from the bedside lamp. "Grace…"

"This _not_ your fault," she tells him, grasping one of his hands in both of hers and squeezing. " _None_ of this is your fault. Don't do this to yourself."

His expression is fixed, bleak. "When it was _my_ child who didn't come home, I moved heaven and earth to try and find him. How can I – "

"Luke was young; troubled. Summer is a grown woman. Educated, employed… No, we can't completely discount the possibility that something may have happened to her, but you said it yourself – the chances are she'll turn up in a day or two and wonder what on earth all the fuss was about." Boyd opens his mouth to speak but Grace presses on with, "You and Anna – you both know what it's like to go through the trauma of a loved one disappearing. You both know what it's like to spend _years_ wondering if they're alive or dead. Harsh as it may sound, it's what you've both been through before that's making you react like this."

He scowls in response. "Jesus Christ, Grace, now is _not_ the time to be giving me the bloody psychologist's view."

"I'm not," she says, snagging his arm as he tries to roll away from her. "I'm simply trying to tell you why – "

"Well, don't," Boyd interrupts, shaking off her grasp. His body flexes as he swings his legs out of bed and sits up. "I'm going to call Spence."

Grace snatches hold of his wrist, locking her grip as tightly and stubbornly as she can. She's nowhere near strong enough to prevent him from getting up, but she hopes she can at least discourage him. "No, Boyd. _No_."

He rounds on her then, his temper flaring, and she attempts to weather the storm as best she can, trying to muster stoicism in the face of his angry frustration, his combined guilt, confusion and despair. She knows it's not her he's lashing out at, not really; knows that the strongest emotion driving him is not anger but grief, and that makes his sudden loss of control just that little bit more heart-breaking to watch. As the storm finally begins to ebb, she puts her arms around him, presses herself against him, tries to ground him, to bring him back to the quiet reality of the here and now. As he runs out of words, it seems to have some effect, the wire tension in his body turning to slowly decreasing shudders as he lowers his head to rest it on her shoulder.

"It's all right," she whispers, close to his ear. "I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

It's a tenuous reassurance at best, Grace knows, but what else can she say?

Boyd lifts his head, and they stare at each other for a moment. It's not clear who moves to kiss whom first, and it doesn't matter anyway. It's a desperate thing, on both sides. An urgent search for something, anything, that will soothe them, bind them together in the moment. Rough, impatient kisses that deepen, hearts that beat faster, shared body heat that quickly intensifies; all of it rapidly claiming them as they try their best to forget everything except each other and the bed covers that tangle around them as the urgent mutual desire rises and nature takes its course.

-oOo-

When Grace walks into the squad room the next morning, just a few minutes later than she would normally arrive, she finds the place – and the team – in uproar. There's a lot of movement and shouting, not all from Boyd, and as she stares at the chaotic scene it is Kat who sidles up to her and mutters, "Anna Dawson's daughter, Summer…"

A feeling of cold dread blooms in her stomach. "Oh, no… she's not…?"

Kat looks confused, shakes her head. "What? _No_. No, she walked into Stratford nick at seven o'clock this morning claiming to know who killed her father."

Astounded, Grace manages, "What?"

"It gets better," Kat informs her, "she's pointing the finger at – "

" _Grace_ ," a deep, impatient male voice thunders, interrupting the revelation. "What the _hell_ sort of time do you call this?"

"About ten past nine," she retorts, not in any mood to be lectured. "Why what time do _you_ call it?"

Boyd's answering glare is a long, long way from friendly. "Fucking _hilarious_. I'm surrounded by fucking comedians. In-my-fucking-office-right- _now_."

"I'm sure you could've squeezed a couple more 'fuckings' in there if you'd tried a bit harder, Boyd," she snipes, earning herself another dark look. One she ignores. She looks towards Spencer, "What's going on?"

"Best talk to _him_ , Grace," Spencer tells her, nodding in the direction of the tall figure just disappearing into the nearest of the two semi-glazed offices.

Shaking her head at the situation, she stalks after Boyd, more than ready to teach him a lesson or two in manners if he doesn't immediately explain himself. It's not a matter of preferential treatment, it's one of common courtesy. Being ordered to close the door after her doesn't help, and she scowls at him as she snaps, "Well?"

"Summer Allen."

"Kat was just trying to tell me when you started shouting your head off. Honestly, Boyd, it's – "

"She says Carol Kemp killed Michael," he says, cutting across her as he settles behind his desk. "Claims to have seen her at Loughton tube station the day he disappeared."

The information changes her focus. "Loughton…? That's close to the end of the Central Line, isn't it?"

Boyd nods. "Correct. Loughton, Debden, Theydon Bois… and Epping."

"Michael's body was found between Loughton Brook and Earl's Path," Grace reflects, her annoyance forgotten. "We were concentrating on the car park opposite the pond…"

"Perfectly reasonable, given the relative proximity to Michael's remains."

"What was Summer doing at Loughton tube?" she asks. "She was only just sixteen when her father disappeared, and supposedly still at school in Newham."

"Kids will be kids, Grace," Boyd says with a shrug. "Wouldn't be the first teenager to skive off lessons because she was bored, would she?"

Changing the subject before it can lead them into dangerous territory, she asks, "So where is she now?"

Reaching for a folder on his desk, Boyd says, "On her way here, courtesy of one Detective Sergeant Emma Wright, who had the gumption to call Spence as soon as she found out the Allen case was an active investigation again."

"Well, hurrah for Detective Sergeant Emma Wright, then." Grace watches as he starts to leaf through printed pages, unease starting to nag at her. "Please tell me you're not intending to do something stupid?"

He looks up, peering over the top of his reading glasses at her. "Such as?"

"Interviewing Summer yourself?"

"Credit me with some bloody intelligence," Boyd growls. He closes the folder and skims it across the desk towards her. " _You're_ going to do it."

-oOo-

"I used to bunk off school and go busking with my dad," Summer tells them, her voice quiet and calm. "Not every day, but now and again. He used to get on the Central Line with his flute and move between stations. When I was old enough, I used to grab a guitar and go with him. Weekends and holidays, at first. It was our big secret."

"Your mother didn't know?" Grace inquires, studying the young woman sitting on the other side of the interview room's solid table. She certainly has a look of her father, Michael Allen, about her, but if asked, Grace would certainly say she much more closely resembles her mother. Except, of course, for those eerily familiar dark eyes.

"No," Summer says with a firm shake of her head. "She would've put a stop to it straightaway if she'd ever found out. She didn't like _dad_ doing it, let alone _me_. Said there were better ways to make money than begging. Dad didn't see it like that, though. He said that he just enjoyed playing, and if people wanted to show their appreciation with a few coins, well, that was cool."

"I see."

"My dad," Summer continues, a hint of real affection appearing in her voice, "absolutely hated confrontation. With anyone. He was the quiet, creative type. Thoughtful. A bit of a dreamer who never had any great ambitions. He was at Art School when he met my mum, but then they met a group of people living in a squat in Newham and he dropped out to go and live with them."

"So, the day he disappeared," Spencer says, getting back to the point, "you skipped school and… did what?"

Summer gazes sedately at them both. "I met him at Stratford tube station at about ten. We tried our luck at Leytonstone and Snaresbrook, then at Woodford. It was a slow day."

"Surely it would have been better to go west?" Grace says. "Tottenham Court Road, Oxford Circus? Somewhere with more tourists?"

A simple shrug. "Dad wanted to go to Epping Forest."

"Why?" Spencer asks.

"Same reason as always. _Amanita muscaria_ ," she says. "Fly agaric. It was mid-September. He wanted to look for mushrooms."

" _Magic_ mushrooms," Spencer guesses.

Summer's bland, calm expression doesn't change. "If you like."

"You didn't go with him?" Grace asks.

"No." Summer shakes her head. "It was the afternoon by then, and I wanted to go shopping with some friends when they finished school for the day. We said goodbye at Loughton and I got on the next tube train heading back to Stratford. That's when I saw Carol. When I was changing platforms."

"Miss Allen," Spencer says, "you do realise the seriousness of the allegation you've made against Miss Kemp?"

"I'm not stupid."

"No-one's suggesting that you are," Grace assures her. Studying her across the width of the interview room table, she asks, "What makes you think Carol had anything to do with what happened to your father?"

"She hated him," Summer says, sudden intensity edging her voice. "Hated _all_ of us, come to that, but especially dad. Didn't want her precious daughter having anything to do with any of us."

Spencer asks, "Because…?"

Summer's reply is prompt and bitter. "She didn't like 'our sort'. That's what she used to say. But it was more than that. She didn't want anyone reminding Louise about what her father – my grandfather – was. She was pathological about it. Bad blood, that's what Carol used to say."

"Are you referring to your grandfather's… culture?" Grace asks, not sure how else to frame the question.

A thoughtful, steady look and, "That he was a proper gypsy, you mean? Yes. Dad was fascinated by it, but Carol… Carol used to make up ridiculous stories about how the old man was descended from some noble line of boyars. Complete rubbish. My grandfather was Roma. Kalderash. His family were blacksmiths and metalworkers, had been for generations."

"And that's why you think Carol killed your father?" Spencer asks, his tone sceptical at best. "Because she didn't want him encouraging Louise to embrace her… heritage… the way _he_ wanted to?"

"Yes."

A crackle in Grace's left ear precedes a tinny approximation of Kat's voice saying through the earpiece, "She's lying. I've just been sent copies of the school's records for 'ninety-seven. Some of them should have been shredded long since, but luckily for us they were all still in the archive. The day Michael disappeared, Summer was on a subsidised school trip to Hastings Castle in East Sussex."

-oOo-

"What's the most obvious reason to lie?" Boyd muses, standing in front of the squad room's evidence board, his back to the rest of the team.

"Protection," Grace replies immediately. "We lie to protect ourselves, or someone else."

He doesn't look round at her. "And, if we ignore the fact that she was apparently fifty miles away on the day it happened, do we think that Summer, at just sixteen, had the means, motive and opportunity to kill her father?"

"No, absolutely not."

Spencer gets to his feet, moves to stand next to his superior officer. "So if she's not protecting herself…"

"…who _is_ she protecting?" Boyd finishes for him.

"Her mother?" Kat offers. "Got to be."

"It was Anna who originally reported Michael missing," Grace points out.

"Smokescreen?" Kat suggests with a shrug.

"Could be, but I don't think so. Boyd?"

This time he does spare her a quick glance. "What?"

Only just refraining from sighing, Grace says, "Care to share whatever it is you're thinking with the rest of the class?"

He perches on the edge of the nearest desk, his gaze still focused on the evidence board. "I'm thinking… that she didn't go home last night. Summer."

"And…?"

"And… that this morning she turns up with some cock and bull story that's got so many holes in it you could use it for a bloody colander."

"Nice analogy," Spencer says

"Thanks."

Kat looks from one man to the other. "So… what…? She walks around all night trying to come up with something vaguely plausible, forgetting that the very first thing anyone's going to ask is why the hell didn't she say any of this _years_ ago?"

Boyd shrugs. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, Kat."

"How desperate do you have to be to believe something like that could work?" Grace wonders aloud.

"If you're not completely naïve? Pretty damn desperate, I'd say."

Spencer glares at the photographs lined up on the evidence board. "Which takes us right back to the identity of the person she's trying to protect."

"Kat's right," Boyd says. "It's got to be Anna Dawson."

Grace stares at him in disbelief. "You don't _seriously_ believe Anna killed Michael?"

"No," he says, "I don't. But what if _Summer_ does?"

-oOo-

"Well?" Boyd says when Grace returns to the squad room. He's alone, sitting at Spencer's desk, reading through one of the many folders stacked there. She thinks he looks very much like a man who is deliberately loitering.

Tired and frustrated, Grace shakes her head. "She's refusing point blank to change her story. Says the school records must be wrong. Which we can't prove one way or the other after so long, of course. Unless we can track down some of the other kids who were on the same trip."

"Spence on that?"

"Kat is," she assures him. "What are you up to?"

"Waiting for you," he says, flipping the folder closed and pushing it away. "While you were talking to Summer again, Eve called me to the lab."

The DNA test results. Somehow, she'd almost forgotten. Grace feels her stomach lurch, an unexpected and unpleasant sensation. Pulse quickening, she stares at Boyd, but he's impassive, unreadable. Swallowing against a suddenly tight throat, she says, "Go on."

His voice is flat. "He was my father. Străjescu."

It's hardly a great shock, of course, but Grace still feels herself momentarily reel at the news. Recovering fast, she hears herself say, "Well, at least you know."

"At least I know," Boyd echoes, a hollowness to his voice that matches the dullness of his usually expressive eyes. They gaze at each other for a few long, silent and highly-charged seconds, and then he adds, "I'm waiting for the DAC's office to call me back."

Nonplussed, she says, "The DAC's office? Why?"

He sighs, rubs at his beard. "Because none of us can pretend this is a hypothetical situation anymore, Grace. I've proposed two different courses of action to the Yard."

"Which are?" she asks, not sure she really wants to hear the answer.

"We hand the Allen case over to someone else immediately – _today_ – or," Boyd shrugs, "I take garden leave for the duration."

"You? On _garden_ _leave_?" she says, stunned. "Boyd…"

"What else can I do, Grace? Seriously, what else can I do?"

He looks defeated, she thinks. Like a man who's finally given in and surrendered to the inevitable without bothering with a final fight. It tears into her, seeing him so quiet, so resigned. It's so uncharacteristic that for a moment it feels as if he's a complete stranger, a man she doesn't know at all. She swallows again, mouth and throat still dry. "But…"

The phone on Spencer's desk starts to ring, and Boyd picks up the handset, his gaze locked to hers as he says, "DSI Boyd, Cold Case Unit."

She watches him, waits for the tiniest clue as to the caller's identity, or the nature of the call.

He says, "Yes, sir. Yes, I understand." A pause. "Yes, of course. I'll inform DI Jordan immediately. Thank you. Goodbye."

"Well?" Grace demands as he replaces the handset, but the way Boyd gets so slowly and quietly to his feet answers her question well enough. Appalled, she simply stares at him.

He holds her gaze only long enough to say, "Tell Spence I want to see him in my office in twenty minutes, would you?"

-oOo-

_cont..._


	4. Part 4

**PART FOUR**

"Playing by the rules sucks, huh?" the quiet, American-accented voice says in his ear. "So what happens now?"

Staring out at the unmown stretch of lawn that forms his back garden, Boyd hunches one shoulder, says, "I sit and wait to be told that either I can resume my normal duties at the CCU, or that due to the ongoing nature of the investigation I'm being temporarily assigned elsewhere. Look, Sarah, I'm sorry. I don't know why I called you."

"I'm glad you did," the woman far away on the other side of the Atlantic says. "So tell me what you know about Străjescu."

"It's precious little," he admits. He's not even sure he wants to share the little he does know. Not with her, not with anyone. Not yet. Bad blood. The words keep repeating themselves in his head. _Bad blood_.

"So?" Sarah says. "Fresh pair of eyes."

"Ears."

"Smart-ass."

Dropping down into the nearest chair, Boyd gives in and does as he's told, eventually finishing with, "Strange thing is, I can almost understand Clare's point of view."

"That's because you're an entitled, straight, white middle-class British guy."

"Thanks," he complains. "Don't pull any bloody punches, will you?"

"Don't worry," Sarah's warm, amused voice says, "you're still my _favourite_ entitled, straight, white middle-class British guy."

He snorts. "Yeah, well… apparently I'm actually a member of a historically persecuted ethnic minority."

"Or as we call them over here, gypsies." A quiet chuckle, followed by, a more serious, "If you want to get away from it all for a bit, you could come to New York for a few days."

"For old times' sake?" he asks, several still-potent memories stirring. That night in New York when she –

"Why not?"

"Can't," Boyd tells her honestly, glad to have his wandering thoughts interrupted. "I have other… commitments."

"Ah." Her tone is knowing and not at all hostile. "How is Grace, by the way?"

Startled, he says, "You know about that?"

"I didn't," is her cheerful reply, "but I do now. Thanks for confirming my suspicions."

"Fuck's _sake_ ," Boyd grumbles. She's too damn sharp for her own good. Then, wasn't that part of the attraction? He's self-aware enough to know that he repeatedly falls for the same type of woman – sharp, funny, and feisty. Challenging, intelligent women who make him work for what he wants. Women who like him, but don't need him. Independent, spirited women. He wonders what that says about his own psyche.

"I'm going to email you some stuff you might find interesting," Sarah says. "I have a friend who has access to the Yad Vashem archive in Jerusalem."

"Of _course_ you do," he says. "Nothing to do with Mossad at _all_."

She seems to choose to ignore the sarcasm. "Up to half a million gypsies died during the Holocaust. Twenty-five thousand were deported from Romania alone. I know you've thought about it."

" _How_ do you know I have?" he demands.

"Because I know _you_ , Peter," she says simply, "and I know that you can't turn your back on an injustice. If your father's family were still nomadic, as your niece claims, rather than settled, then they were amongst the very first to be rounded up by Antonescu's regime."

"I don't – "

"Look," she says, "I'll send you the stuff, okay? It's up to you what you do with it."

"Fine," he mutters, recognising when he's beaten.

"I have to go. Take care of yourself," she says, "and pass on my regards to Grace."

"I will," Boyd says, but he won't. He thinks Sarah knows it, too. "Well, goodbye, then."

-oOo-

Boyd's known DI Charlie Moore for more than twenty-five years. They played on the same Borough soccer team in their long-forgotten days as fresh-faced young constables, and they've worked together several times since. They've never been close friends, but their relationship, such as it is, has always been smooth and cordial. Charlie, in Boyd's view, is the kind of man he can do business with. Tough and tenacious, he's a loyal family man with two grown-up daughters and a cheerful, no-nonsense wife who's stuck with him through all the good and bad times that come with a long, eventful career. A decent, ordinary sort of man, and a damn good copper.

They meet as arranged in the saloon bar of the White Hart, not too far from Billingsgate Market. It's Charlie who says, "I'm assuming this is about Chapman?"

"It is," Boyd admits as they settle at a small corner table. "What have you heard about the Allen case?"

"I take it you mean unofficially?"

"Mm."

Charlie shrugs. "Very little. Surprised me, really. We were told to liaise with your lot, which we did, but the moment we nicked Craddock it all went very quiet at your end."

"There are… additional factors," Boyd says, knowing Charlie won't push for more detail. "So? Did he do it?"

"Craddock? Well, I didn't bloody fit him up, did I? We all stopped doing that back in the 'seventies, didn't we?" Charlie picks up his pint glass, looks at him and says, "Yeah, he did it. Nasty piece of work. Not just your average junkie. Er… no offence, mate. I was really sorry to hear about your boy."

"Thanks," Boyd says, the response so ingrained, so automatic that he doesn't have to think about it. The dull pain that never quite goes away flickers for a moment, but he distracts himself with, "I'm not running the investigation, my DI is."

"Yeah, I gathered," Charlie says with a nod. "So? What's this all about?"

Watching a group of rowdy young men who might be porters from the market gathering by the bar, Boyd asks, "Did you manage to trace Chapman's next-of-kin?"

Charlie nods. "Took a bit of doing, but yeah, eventually. An elderly mother."

"Ruby Chapman?"

"Yeah, that's her. She's in a council-run nursing home in Dagenham. I sent my DS, Finch, over there to break the news. Old girl's starting to lose her marbles, but she took the news reasonably well, apparently."

"Give me the address, Charlie, and I'll owe you one."

"You already owe me several," Charlie points out.

Boyd spares him a brief grin. "One more won't hurt, then, will it?"

"Question…?"

Picking up his glass, Boyd tilts his head a fraction. "Yes?"

Charlie looks pensive as he asks, "Is this to do with the Allen case? Your victim and mine were half-brothers."

"They were, and no, it's not. It's… a personal matter."

Charlie is silent for several seconds before he says. "Rumour has it that you're suddenly on garden leave."

Boyd isn't surprised the news has already travelled so far. "The Met's jungle drums are working to their usual high standard, I see."

"Disciplinary matter?" Charlie inquires, blunt as ever.

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

The other man's gaze is steady, trusting. "I would, yeah."

"Then, no, it's not."

"A personal matter, then," Charlie surmises. His gaze is shrewd as he asks, "The _same_ personal matter?"

Boyd doesn't want to discuss it. He shrugs, the movement languid, dismissive. "Maybe."

Charlies eyes narrow, but there's no ire in his tone as he says, "You're a canny bugger, Peter. Then again, you always were. Is this going to come back to bite me?"

"No," Boyd assures him.

Charlie seems to think for a moment before saying, "All right. But if anyone ever asks…"

"…I didn't get the address from you. I know. Thanks, Charlie."

A derisive snort. "Better buy me another pint, then, hadn't you? It's the very least you can bloody do."

Reaching for his wallet, Boyd says, "One more thing…"

Charlie sighs. "What?"

"Has the Coroner released Chapman's body yet?"

-oOo-

Grace does not seem pleased to see him. Not bothering to knock, given that he has a key, Boyd walks into her house just before eight, heads straight for the small kitchen at the rear, and finds himself greeted with a tetchy, "Why are you here?"

"Good evening to you, too," he says, advancing on the stove where she's stirring the contents of a large saucepan. "Enough for two?"

"I can't talk to you," she warns him. "You _know_ that."

"In general, or about the Allen case?"

"Oh, God, you're in one of _those_ moods…"

"Pasta," Boyd tuts, peering into the saucepan. "If I'd known, I'd have stopped at the late night deli on Sutton Road."

"Were you actually invited?" she demands. "No? Well keep your complaints to yourself, then."

"Bad day?" he inquires, knowing his mild tone will irritate her further.

Grace glowers at him. "What do _you_ bloody think?"

Deciding that further flippancy is an unwise choice, Boyd says, "It's not been a great day for me, either."

The dark glower abates a fraction. "Oh, I know. It's just been so difficult this afternoon. Spence is doing a good job, but…"

"But…?" he prompts.

"I think everyone's just a bit unsettled and on edge," she admits. "No-one's running around shouting and making unreasonable demands. It's very strange."

He grins at her. "Nice to know I'm missed."

"I wouldn't go quite _that_ far."

He changes the subject with, "Did you talk to Anna?"

"Boyd…"

"Oh, come _on_ ," he says, resting himself up against the counter next to the stove. "You can take confidentiality too bloody far, you know, Grace. I haven't been sacked, I'm not under investigation for anything, and I'm still in charge of the unit."

"And you'd blow a fuse if the situation was reversed and I was trying to get information out of _you_."

"Not necessarily," he contradicts, but he knows she's right. They both do.

"Rubbish."

Thinking of Anna again, he says, "I could always go and get it straight from the horse's mouth, you know."

Grace glances at him. "Not even _you_ would be that stupid, surely?"

The sting in her tone is not feigned, and it makes Boyd survey her with renewed curiosity. She's not just tired and stressed, he decides. Something else is bothering her. Something she's not going to talk about unless or until he asks the right questions. Women. They're such damned hard work. Resisting the urge to sigh, he asks, "What's the matter with you tonight?"

"Nothing."

Boyd hasn't been married and divorced _and_ got to his current age without learning to dread that particular word when it's delivered by an irate female determinedly pretending that everything is just fine, thank-you-very-much. "Well, now I know for _certain_ that I'm in the bloody doghouse for something. I just can't work out what."

"That really doesn't surprise me."

He decides to make an educated guess. "I did what you wanted me to do all along, I took a step back."

"That's not the problem."

"Ah ha," he says, not bothering to conceal his triumph, "so there _is_ a problem. Well? Out with it."

Grace continues to stir the contents of the saucepan with unnecessary vigour. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," he says, plucking the wooden spoon from her hand and throwing it into the sink in a lazy arc. It's probably not the best tactic, but it gets her attention.

The look she gives him is icy. "You really can't see it, can you, Boyd? How destructive this whole thing with Străjescu is? How much it's affecting you?"

"Not this again," he grumbles. "Grace – "

"Have you forgotten how wound up you were last night?" she demands. "Or how bad-tempered you were this morning? Has it crossed your mind to wonder what it's like for _me_ , watching you stumble further and further along a road that can't possibly lead you to anywhere good?"

He holds up a hand. "Wait, is this supposed to be about _me_ , or about _you_? Because, you know, from my perspective a bit of support and understanding really wouldn't go amiss."

"Seriously? Oh, that's _it_ ," she snarls, turning on her heel and stalking away towards the door to the hall. "Now I really _have_ heard it all…"

-oOo-

"I'm sorry, all right?" Boyd says, for what feels like the hundredth time. He glares at the locked bedroom door and has to fight hard against the renewed temptation to lash out at it with his fists. "Grace, come on. Don't fucking do this."

"Go away," her angry voice retorts, only a little muffled by the door between them. "I don't want to talk to you. In fact, right now I don't want to have _anything_ to do with you at all."

It's a clear rejection, and it hurts. Hurts more than Boyd's willing to admit, even to himself. Old memories stir, memories of a once happy marriage that buckled and eventually collapsed completely under the crippling weight of stress, fear, and accusation. Memories that increase his spiky, defensive annoyance, and lead him to aim a hard, spontaneous kick at the door's lower panel. " _Grace_."

"Stop that," she barks immediately. "I realise it's difficult for you to behave like a reasonable adult, Boyd, but – "

He kicks the door again, much harder, the noise of the impact drowning her out. The wood reverberates in a highly satisfying manner, soothing his temper for an all-too brief moment. "You want me to break it down?" he growls. "Because I bloody _will_ , you know."

"I don't doubt it for a moment," she says, and he hears the lock turn just a second before the door opens a fraction and she glares out at him. "Go _away_ , Boyd."

"No," he says, obstinate to the last. "Not until you tell me what the fuck this is all about. One minute you're fine – "

"Fine…" Grace echoes with a snort.

" – the next you're storming off and behaving like a bloody lunatic." Boyd shakes his head as she pulls the door open further. Oblivious to the danger, he continues, "Jesus, if you were younger, I'd say this was a typical case of monthly female – "

He doesn't see the slap coming. Has no chance to mitigate the force with which it hits him. Grace is not a big woman, but there's enough anger in the open-handed blow to snap his head round when it lands. His immediate instinct, driven by his infamous temper, and thankfully suppressed in an instant, is to strike back at her. Instead, one cheek blazing, he slowly and silently turns his head back so that he can stare straight at her. She looks almost more shocked than he feels. Shocked, but not, he notes, altogether repentant.

"Happy now?" he asks, not bothering to hide his contempt.

"No," she snaps back, unshed tears suddenly glittering in her blue eyes. "Why do you – "

"Don't you _dare_ try to blame me," Boyd interrupts, too aware of the unpleasant way his pulse is racing. It takes a huge effort of will to keep the surging aggression and adrenaline from overwhelming him. " _You_ hit _me_ , Grace, not the other way around."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, part contrite and part defiant. Then, with more intensity, "I really, really am. There's absolutely no excuse for behaving like that. Are… are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay," he growls at her, his fury ebbing fast in the face of the sincerity of her apology. "You hit like a girl."

"I _am_ a girl," Grace points out. "Well, a female, at least."

"And don't I bloody know it."

Her eyes flash a renewed warning at him. "Meaning…?"

Boyd takes a deep, steadying breath. Exhales slowly and steadily, forcing equilibrium. "Nothing. Look, Grace, can we _please_ just rewind this conversation and start again from the bit where I've realised there's a problem, but I'm desperately struggling to work out what the hell it is?"

"Sarah," she announces, startling him.

He stares at her. "Sarah?"

"Tall, attractive brunette…? Lives in New York…?"

"I _know_ who you mean," Boyd tells her, fighting for patience, "but I'm not making the connection."

"Funnily enough."

"You're annoyed with me because I called Sarah?"

"Oh, so you _did_ call her." It doesn't sound like a question. Not even a rhetorical one.

"This afternoon," he confirms. "Wait… how did you know?"

Her lip curls up in a sneer. "My assumption was based purely on the sudden deluge of emails poor Spence was left trying to field this afternoon."

"Emails?" he asks, confused.

"Yad Vashem?" Grace prompts. "The World Holocaust Remembrance Center?"

Things begin to make a little more sense. "Oh, _those_ emails."

" _Those_ emails," she confirms.

Something else occurs to Boyd. "Hang on, why the _fuck_ was Spencer reading my emails?"

"Because when you're away everything sent to the CCU's catch-all address is automatically redirected to him." Grace shakes her head. "You should have told her to use _your_ address instead of the generic CCU one, idiot."

"Oh." Still bemused, he says, "And _that's_ why you're angry? Because I spoke to Sarah?"

"Yes," she says. "No. Oh, I don't know. I didn't realise you were still in touch."

Boyd shrugs. "We're not. Well, not really. The occasional phone call or email now and again, that's all."

"I see."

He knows that tone. Less than perceptive when it comes to the subtle nuances of female moods and behaviour, he is, nevertheless, nowhere near stupid enough to miss such an obvious clue as to what's _really_ going on. Deciding that now is not the time for smug preening, he opts for incredulity. "Oh, come _on_ … please don't tell me all this is down to some kind of ridiculous, misplaced touch of jealousy? Grace?"

"Well, how would _you_ feel?" she snaps at him. "If I was having some… issues… in my private life, and I chose to discuss them with an ex rather than with you?"

Torn between genuine anger and simple exasperation, he replies, "You're not bloody _serious_? The foundations my entire life's been built on are collapsing under me, and _you're_ worried about a ten minute telephone conversation I had with a woman I haven't set eyes on for over two fucking _years_?"

"What I'm worried about," she retorts, not giving ground, "is _you_. Yad Vashem? Really?"

"That wasn't my idea. Sarah just thought…" He lets the defensive words trail away as her expression hardens. Shaking his head, he tries, "Grace, do you have _any_ idea what it's like to discover that everything you assumed you could count on about _who_ and _what_ you are is completely wrong?"

"No," Grace says. "Not at all, and I won't pretend otherwise, but – "

"Not again," he warns her. "The very last thing I need to hear right now is 'I told you so'."

She's silent for a few seconds. Then, her voice soft and quiet, she says, "Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"It's straightforward question, Boyd. Do you trust me?"

-oOo-

The imposing façade of Alexandra Palace behind them, they sit side by side on one of the wooden park benches gazing out at the striking stretch of night-time London laid out before them. Eyes on the jagged city skyline, Boyd breaks the long silence with, "Why here?"

"Neutral territory?" Grace suggests. "Nowhere to run?"

Refocusing his gaze, he surveys the wide, murky stretch of grass and trees immediately in front of them. "Apart from the two hundred acres of park, obviously."

"You'd do that, would you? Walk off and leave me here, on my own in the dark?"

"You know your trouble, Grace?" he growls. "You're too bloody clever. Go on, then. Let's get it over with."

"It's not a penance, Boyd," she says, rearranging her scarf around her neck.

"I'm not staying out here all night," he tells her, "so if you really insist on doing this…"

"All right," she says. When she speaks again, there's a discernible change to way she delivers her words. Calmer, cooler. Much more professional. "When did you first find out you were adopted?"

He knows they've talked about the matter before. Knows she already knows the answer. Tempted as he is to point the fact out to her, he grudgingly shakes his head. "I didn't 'find out'. I always knew. Both of us did."

"It felt perfectly normal to you, growing up?"

"Well, of _course_ it bloody did, Grace. I didn't know any different, did I?"

"Do you remember ever being teased about it?" she asks. "At school, say?"

"No," he answers immediately, but quickly modifies his response. "Well, not really. Once or twice, a bit, maybe. Just kids' stuff."

"Did it hurt?"

Caught by half-forgotten memories that are decades old, Boyd avoids answering directly. "Well, everyone gets tormented about something occasionally at that age, don't they?"

"That's an interesting word to use," she says. "'Tormented'."

He's conducted enough interviews alongside her to know how good she is at picking up on key words. Too good, in this instance. "Figure of speech, Grace. Look, I wasn't bullied about it, if that's what you're asking, and nor was Jamie."

She lets a few seconds pass before she says, "You told me once that your relationship with your father – with Douglas – was problematic."

Boyd favours her with a quick sideways look before returning his gaze to the city lights in front of them. "It could be. From time to time. Probably far more my fault than his, in hindsight. He was a good man. A good father, too. Fair."

"Kind?"

"Yes," he agrees without hesitation.

"Loving?"

Just about managing to prevent himself from wincing, Boyd says, "C'mon, Grace, I grew up in the 'fifties and 'sixties. Things were different in those days. Less…"

"'Touchy feely'?" she suggests. "To coin a phrase."

"Yeah, if you like. I was packed off to bloody boarding school, not mollycoddled like… kids are today."

Grace seizes on his momentary hesitation. "Like kids are today, or like _James_ was?"

Stung by her accuracy, Boyd refuses to look at her. He knows he sounds defensive as he says, "That was different. When we were kids, Jamie's epilepsy wasn't controlled the way it is now. Back then could have a fit at any time. Sometimes when it was really bad he could have several a day."

"Seizure," Grace corrects him.

"Fit, seizure, it's all the damn same," he grumbles. "Don't preach political correctness to me, Grace. And don't tell me I subconsciously resented him for the attention he got from our parents because of it, or some other such bollocks, because it's simply not true."

"If you say so. But if you had… it would have been perfectly understandable."

"Look," he says, with as much patience as he can muster, "I agreed to talk about… stuff… but can we _please_ just get to the bloody point?"

There's a long moment of silence. It's followed by, "You felt like an outsider, didn't you?"

This time Boyd does wince. He brought the blunt question on himself, he knows. Folding his arms across his chest, he continues to stare straight ahead. "I did, yes."

"Because…?"

Damned woman's not going to leave him alone, he knows. Not now she's hit her stride. There's no point in attempting to prevaricate. "I was different. From Jamie. From Douglas and Audrey. Not just in looks. In so many ways."

"But did _they_ make you feel different?" she presses. "Intentionally, I mean?"

"No, of course _not_ ," he snaps irritably. "I keep telling you, they were good people. It was _me_ , Grace, not _them_. There was just something different in _me_ … Still is, I suppose."

"And you think Străjescu is the key." It's a statement, not a question.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Bad blood," she murmurs, echoing his earlier thoughts.

"Yeah," he mutters, just as quiet.

"You know that's complete rubbish, don't you? It was just something Carol used to say."

Boyd grunts, pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his long coat against the increasing chill of the night. "Maybe she's right."

"She's not."

"Whatever. You going round there tomorrow?"

"I can't tell you that," she counters, "and don't try to change the subject, Boyd. What about your mother? Your birth mother, I mean."

He wishes she'd stop. Wishes he'd never agreed to this… torment. But she won't, and he did. "What about her?"

"Have you ever tried to find her?" Grace asks.

That, at least, he can answer simply. "No point."

"Why?"

"Because she died in 'fifty seven. Asian 'flu." Without thinking about it Boyd focuses his attention on the cluster of towers on the skyline that mark Canary Wharf and lets his gaze track west of them to what he guesses is Shoreditch. "You know what the East End was like back in the 'fifties. Or maybe you don't. It was grim, Grace. Poverty, squalor. Everything still in ruins from the war. People living on top of each other in appalling conditions. She was dead and buried years before I even knew her name."

"Tragic," she says. He appreciates her brevity.

"Can't have been much of a life, can it?" he muses, surprising himself. "Growing up in the East End during the Blitz. Pregnant at sixteen, unmarried mother at seventeen. Things were very different back then."

"They were," Grace agrees, solemn and quiet.

Something he's often pondered forces itself into the open. "I wonder if she had a choice."

"About…?"

"The baby… me. Whether it was her decision to…" Boyd can't say the words.

Grace can, it seems. "Give you away? Probably not. Don't forget, it wasn't until the 'seventies that the age of majority was dropped to eighteen. And even then…"

"…it wouldn't have been an easy ride. Yeah, I know."

"It was probably the hardest thing she ever had to do."

"You can't possibly know that, Grace."

She doesn't reply, and not for the first time Boyd wonders if she is keeping more secrets from the world than even he knows. At length she says, "You've never been tempted to track down her family? You could have uncles and aunts. Cousins. Half-brothers and sisters, even."

"I think I've suddenly got quite enough of those, don't you?" he tells her. "And in answer to your question, no, I've never even given it a thought."

"So what makes Străjescu different?" Grace inquires.

"I didn't go looking for him. He was… foisted upon me."

They gaze out across the parkland together, both of them silent and thoughtful until she asks, "Do you remember the day we went to Newham? The day we spoke to McMahon? You asked me if it was nature or nurture that makes us what we are."

He remembers. It feels like such a long time ago. Testament, he supposes, to just how much has happened in the interim. He nods. "And you said there was no conclusive answer to that."

"Something I still strongly believe," Grace confirms. "What we are, Boyd, is the sum total of our genetics, our environment, experience… any number of things. Just because you got those brooding good looks from him – "

Not sure if he's flattered or disgusted by the words, he groans. "Oh, _please_."

She smirks and carries straight on: " – doesn't mean you necessarily inherited anything _else_ from him. You're _you_ , Peter, not some pre-destined duplicate of your father. If you want to find out more about Străjescu and his family and culture, that's entirely up to you, but don't expect to find any answers to the sort of questions you have about yourself."

_Bad blood._ Again and again, the words come back to him. Trying to shake off their long shadow, Boyd questions, "Are you saying… temperament… isn't hereditary?"

Grace shakes her head. "On the contrary, plenty of studies have proved that it _is_. Or _can_ be. But experience and environment also matter. They matter a _lot_."

"Linda saw it in me." He doesn't know where the unwise words come from, regrets them the moment she turns her head sharply to stare at him. "What was it she said to me when we nicked her for killing Reading and the others? 'I've met enough killers to know one when I see one'."

"You're not a killer, Boyd." A flat, closed statement.

A different deep, uneasy sense of guilt that he's spent a lot of time battling surfaces as he says, "Except that I _am_ , aren't I?"

Grace is staring out at the city again. "You refused to kill Penny Cain, and _Linda's_ death wasn't – "

"I'm not talking about Linda," Boyd tells her. When she frowns at him in bewilderment, he continues, "I'm talking about McQueen."

Her surprise intensifies. " _Tom_ McQueen…? But that was _years_ ago…"

She's right, but in his occasional vivid nightmares, it still feels like yesterday. He looks up at the polluted night sky. It's easier than holding her gaze. "So? It doesn't make any bloody difference. I shot him, Grace. Shot him and killed him."

"He was trying to kill Spencer," she retorts, "and he _did_ kill Drake – and you would've been next. It was pure self-defence, Boyd. The official inquiry never once questioned that."

"I'm still a killer," he insists. It's almost a relief to say the words aloud, finally. "Linda was right. She saw it in me, and she was _right_."

-oOo-

He's twelve again, and marching towards the Stannard brothers, his chin tucked in and his fists clenched. Home from school for the long summer break, he's seen just how frightened of the pair of much bigger boys his vulnerable younger brother is, has heard the insults and the catcalls, and now he's going to do something about it. Alex Stannard is about his own age and build, but Simon… Simon is much bigger and heavier, and is at least three years older. Two against one, the odds are not in Boyd's favour. His blood's up, though, and the wild fury is roaring in his ears. He doesn't care how bad it's going to be. Doesn't even bother to think about it. He just keeps walking, quick and sure, bearing down on the two boys standing on the street corner as he gets ready to –

"Peter." The voice is quiet, female and insistent. It's definitely not James's desperate, fearful voice. " _Peter_."

Grace.

Fighting against a thick haze of sleepy disorientation, he manages to open his eyes enough to ascertain that it is morning, he's in her bed, and that she is awake, dressed, and perched on the edge of the mattress looking down at him with some concern. It's a new and rather strange experience. "…Time is it?" he manages.

"Gone half-past seven," she informs him. "I'm about to leave for work. How are you? You were very restless in the night."

"Work…" he mutters, and sits bolt upright. " _Fuck_. Why didn't you wake me up, I'm – "

"Peter," she says again, calm and amused, "you're on leave, remember? No gloomy, claustrophobic basement for you today."

He remembers. Remembers, groans and collapses back against the pillows. "Fuck."

"Yes, you've said that."

Still sleep-befuddled, he's struggling to make sense of anything. "What day is it?"

"Friday." Grace surveys him for a moment, then says, "Go back to sleep for a bit. Catch up on some rest. I'll see you tonight."

Ignoring the suggestion, Boyd asks, "Are you – "

"I can't tell you," she interrupts before he can get the words out.

Narrow-eyed, he demands, "How do you know what I was going to say?"

"I just _do_. Have some faith in our ability to do our jobs properly, hm?"

Boyd growls without bothering to form words. Rubs idly at his beard. It needs trimming, he thinks, and he could definitely do with a shave. Time enough for such things later. Thinking about Carol Kemp again, he starts, "Tell Spence – "

"No," Grace says, standing up. "I'm going to work now. Be a good boy, and do _try_ to stay out of trouble."

He waits until she's almost at the door before saying, "Grace?"

She sighs. "What?"

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye…?"

-oOo-

The Elms Nursing Home in Dagenham isn't large or prepossessing, but nor is it difficult to find. Parking his car in the lee of an ancient, overgrown box hedge, Boyd wonders if he's really doing the right thing. If he should have discussed the matter with Grace before impulsively making up his mind. Too late now – he's not going to get back in the car and drive away now he's here. Walking up to what seems to be the main front door, he locates the intercom, and after a brief exchange of words with a disembodied female voice, is admitted to the building. Inside, the décor is predictably shabby and depressing, but the place seems clean enough, and some small effort has been put into trying the cheer up the long entrance hall with houseplants and vases of flowers.

A young woman in a light grey uniform appears from one of the side rooms, her expression friendly as she says, "Hello. Can I help you?"

The deliberately charming smile he gives her in return would certainly make Grace roll her eyes, he knows. "Ruby Chapman…?"

"Are you a relative?" she asks, smiling back.

Pretty, Boyd muses. Very pretty. And about thirty years too young for him. "No. Well… sort of. It's… complicated."

"She's in the dayroom," the woman says, unflustered by his reply. "Give me a moment, and I'll show you the way."

She's as good as her word, and a few minutes later he finds himself in a big, well-lit room at the rear of the building. Chairs pushed against every wall, a big, half-finished jigsaw on the central table; the smell of disinfectant and old age. There are three elderly women and an even older-looking man present in the room. None of them are talking, none of them even spare him a glance. It makes him dread the years ahead. He's taken to a fragile-looking white-haired old woman seated alone by the window. She's staring out at an ancient bird table set in the middle of a tiny square of scrappy lawn, either lost in thought, or simply… lost.

"Ruby?" his guide says. "Ruby, there's a gentleman here to see you."

"Peter," he supplies in answer to the unasked question. "Hello, Ruby."

Faded blue-grey eyes refocus their gaze and settle on him. The lined, aged-spotted features twist into an indecipherable expression, and a tired, scratchy voice says, "Mick…?"

"Peter," the uniformed woman corrects gently.

…But Boyd understands.

-oOo-

"June's boy?" Ruby asks again.

Boyd nods, grimly hanging on to the very last shreds of his patience. "Yes."

"Nicholas?"

"Peter," he repeats, suspecting it's pointless. "My adoptive parents renamed me _Peter_."

"Mick's bastard." A brief flicker of animation shows on her face. " _One_ of Mick's bastards."

_Bastard_. That word. The one he uses so casually and frequently for all manner of things without thinking _now_ , but that never failed to cut him right to the quick back _then_. The word that literally cost him blood, sweat, and tears in his formative years as he continually fought its bitter sting with his fists. He feels his jaw tighten, and it's an effort to grind out, "If you like."

The faded eyes are hazy with confusion. "June… Clarke? From Aberdeen Street?"

"Yes," he agrees, though he has no idea if it's the correct address. Mustering what fortitude he has left, Boyd continues, "Ruby, I'm sorry if this is bringing back bad memories, but…"

"You want to know about your father?" she guesses, her sudden cold, sharp perception startling him. "Well, that's your right, I suppose. You look like him."

His response is dry. "So I gather."

"Right down to the beard." Her thoughts seem to start to wander again. "June's boy, Nicholas?"

It was a mistake, Boyd thinks. Coming here was a mistake. He forces himself to repeat, "Yes."

"Mick wanted her to call you Nicolae after your grandfather, but her parents wouldn't hear of it. And then they made her give you away." The old woman sniffs. "No better than she ought to have been, that one. Making eyes at other people's menfolk." She gives him what he can only think of as a beady-eyed look, "You married, boy?"

"Divorced," he admits.

"Caught you cheating, did she?"

"No," he says. It's the absolute truth, whether Ruby believes it, or not. "I didn't cheat, and neither did Mary, as far as I'm aware. It wasn't like that. Things happened and our relationship just gradually… broke down."

She seems to accept the simplified explanation. "Children?"

"A son, Luke." Boyd doesn't know why he tells her, not really. "Ruby – "

"Hello?" a polite but faintly quizzical voice says, just behind him. "Can I help you?"

Boyd turns in his seat, finds himself looking at a woman a few years younger than himself. Average height and build, not conventionally pretty, but not at all unattractive. The eyes, though… those dark, intelligent eyes… He stands up, holds out a hand, "Peter Boyd."

"Alison Price," she says, shaking the extended hand in a half-hearted manner. "Are you mum's new social worker?"

"No, I'm…" Boyd shrugs, not sure what to say.

"He's another of your father's bastard children," Ruby informs her daughter. "If your brother was here…"

Alison shakes her head. "Mum…"

"I'm tired," the old woman grumbles. "Tell him to go away."

-oOo-

"I am _so_ sorry," Alison says, and she sounds as if she means it. "Mum… well, she can be a bit… forthright. She's getting more and more forgetful, and more and more inclined to just… well, _say_ things."

They are standing out in the small garden, far enough away from the open French windows not to be overheard, close enough to still be able to see Ruby dozing in her chair. Boyd shakes his head. "You really don't need to apologise, Mrs Price."

" _Alison_ ," she corrects. The small smile she gives him is wry. "Seems a little more appropriate, under the circumstances, don't you think?"

"Alison," he repeats. It's odd, seeing glimpses of himself in a complete stranger. Something pushes him to make amends that probably aren't necessary. "Look, it's entirely my fault for just turning up out of the blue. Besides, I can't argue with the accuracy of her description."

"Actually," Alison says with another smile, rueful this time, "neither can I. My parents weren't ever legally married, though everyone assumed they were. I think the term used to be 'common-law marriage', didn't it?"

"It did," Boyd agrees. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets. "I'm sorry about your brother."

She grimaces. "So am I. Sorry, and heart-broken, but not at all surprised. Gavin was always a bit… unpredictable, and he completely went to pieces after his second wife left him. Started gambling and drinking too much, and… well, you can guess the rest. I tried, I really did, but nothing seemed to stop him sliding further and faster down the slippery slope. I knew he'd been kicked out of his flat, but I didn't realise he was actually homeless. We hadn't spoken for, oh, two or three years, at least."

"I'm sorry," Boyd says again. "If you want me to just go…"

She shakes her head, nods towards a small, cheap wooden bench at the edge of the lawn. "Why don't we sit down?"

Once they're seated, Boyd says, "Your father's… indiscretions… weren't exactly a secret, then?"

"Mum knew," she replies, her voice quiet. "Mum always knew. He was never any good at hiding things from her. We – me and Gavin – didn't find out until… later."

He seizes on the telling pause. "'Later'?"

Alison fiddles with the strap of her handbag, says, "Let's just say you're not the first person to come looking for answers."

"Michael Allen?" he guesses.

She looks startled. "Yes. You know about Michael?"

"Some."

"Um… did you know…"

"…that he's dead?" Boyd says, feeling the need to help her out. "Yes. Look, Alison, there are some things you should know. About me, I mean. About who I am, and why I'm really here."

She doesn't look alarmed. "Oh? Sounds intriguing. Do tell."

So he does.

-oOo-

The story takes longer to recount than he expects, but Alison proves to be an attentive listener, and when Boyd finally reaches the end, she says, "Well, I've never met Carol, but Michael took Louise to visit mum once when I was there. Quiet girl, very… intense. We thought… well, I won't tell you what we thought."

"Why not?" Boyd inquires, sensing a sudden underlying tension.

Alison hesitates, then asks, "Are you talking to me as a police officer, or as the half-brother I didn't know I had when I woke up this morning?"

"Either," he says with a shrug. "Both. The two aren't mutually exclusive."

"That's what I was afraid of."

It's not an unusual reaction. Stretching out his long legs in a subconscious effort to appear less formal, Boyd says, "I told you, I'm not part of the investigation into Michael's death."

"But your staff _are_ ," Alison points out.

"If you know anything that could help, then keeping quiet about it… would not be the right choice. Morally and legally speaking."

"Don't get me wrong, Peter," she says, earnest and quiet, "I consider myself to be a thoroughly law-abiding citizen. I have three children and two grandchildren, all of who have been brought up to respect authority. I've never even had a speeding ticket."

"But…?" he prompts, guessing there's more.

"I don't know anything," Alison maintains. "I really don't, and nor does mum. It's just… oh, I don't know how to describe it. Do you ever get a weird gut feeling about something? A feeling that something's… not quite right."

" _All_ the time," Boyd assures her. "Copper's instinct."

"What do you do about it?"

He shrugs. "Investigate further."

"And if you don't find anything?"

"I investigate _even_ further. It may sound like bragging, but my instincts are rarely wrong." Boyd watches her, waits for her to speak again. When she doesn't, he says, "We don't have any solid proof that Michael was actually _murdered_. It's a safe bet, however, that he didn't bury _himself_ in a shallow grave. Someone else did that. Someone who either killed him, or was with him when he died and knows what happened."

"When I saw Michael and Louise together," she says after a long, long pause, "I didn't altogether get the feeling that they were siblings. _Just_ siblings, I mean."

Frowning, Boyd says, "And Ruby…?"

"Thought the same thing," Alison confirms. "I wasn't going to say anything, I really thought I was imagining it, but mum… the moment they left she said she thought that there was something going on between them."

"'Going on'?"

She looks at the ground, clearly uncomfortable. "Use your imagination."

"You got the impression that perhaps there was some kind of… sexual… element to their relationship?"

"It's completely ridiculous, I know," she says, blushing, "especially because she was so much younger than him, but I just had this weird feeling, watching them together."

"It's not exactly unheard of, you know," Boyd tells her. "There's even a name for it…"

-oOo-

"Genetic Sexual Attraction," Grace's voice says as he paces the small car park, phone pressed to his ear. "It's really not my field, but you're right. It's a controversial theory, to say the least, and there are a lot of different hypotheses about it, but there are plenty of documented cases of, for example, siblings who didn't grow up together who later met in adulthood and found themselves – "

"So," Boyd interrupts, "that could be the reason why Carol was so keen on trying to convince you that Străjescu wasn't Louise's father?"

"It _could_ be. And it could further explain why she didn't want Louise having anything more to do with Michael." A moment of heavy silence. "Boyd, you do realise I'm going to have to tell Spence all this, and immediately?"

He nods, aware that she can't see him. "Yeah, I know."

"Where are you now?" she asks.

"Still at the nursing home."

"And Alison…?"

"Gone to pick her grandson up from nursery. I have her address and phone number."

"What else did she tell you?" Grace inquires. "In general, I mean."

He turns his back on the building, subconsciously lowers his voice a fraction. "That Străjescu was a drunk and an inveterate womaniser, but that it was Ruby who ruled the roost at home. She knew all about his affairs, and she eventually kicked him out when she found herself another bloke."

"Good for her."

"I thought you'd say that." Boyd kicks at a loose stone, sending it bouncing towards the road. "Apparently he was also well-known for being a bit handy with his fists – plenty of scraps outside the pub on a Friday night – but Alison said he never once raised a hand to her or her brother. Or to Ruby, come to that."

"The complete opposite of 'street angel, house devil', eh? Sounds exactly like someone _else_ I know."

"I have no idea who you could _possibly_ be referring to, Grace."

"Of _course_ you don't. What are you going to do now?"

Boyd shrugs to himself. "Head home, I guess. No point in me trying to talk to the old girl again. She's got a few marbles left, but my patience has already been just about tested to destruction."

"I'll talk to Spencer," Grace's voice says in his ear. "Oh, and in case you're still wondering, yes, we did."

"Talk to Carol?"

"No comment."

He looks up at the cloudy sky and grins. "There are times when I really like you, Doctor Foley."

"Enough to cook me dinner later…?"

-oOo-

It's incredibly frustrating, not knowing what's happening, and not being able to contribute, and when Boyd's third early-evening attempt to contact Grace fails, he knows that if he doesn't find a distraction his already simmering temper will boil over. Prowling the house in search of something to occupy himself, but unable to concentrate on anything, he all-but leaps on his phone when it starts to ring, missing the caller identification in his haste. He answers with a bark of, "Grace? What the hell's going on?"

"Bad moment?" his brother's calm voice replies.

Attempting to contain his frustration, Boyd strives to sound at least civil as he says, "Jamie. Sorry. How are you?"

"I was going to ask you the same question. You've been to see Solly."

It's almost, but not quite, an accusation. Moving to the window to look out at the street beyond, Boyd says, "I have, yes. How do you know that?"

"I just had a call from our mother." This time it _is_ an accusation. No other way to describe it. "She was very upset."

Boyd's heart sinks, but he keeps his voice level as he replies, "Upset? Why?"

"She's been to see him, too," James says.

"Oh."

"'Oh'?" Real anger is audible in the usually smooth, bland voice now. "That's the best you can do?"

"What do you expect me to say?" Boyd demands, watching for any sign of Grace's car appearing on the road outside.

"I'm not sure," James replies. "Something a bit bloody better than 'oh'. For God's sake, Pete, didn't it occur to you that the moment he saw her he'd tell her everything? Now she's convinced that she and dad were the worst parents in the world and – "

"I'll deal with it," he growls to stem the rising tide of outrage, though it's the very last thing he wants to do.

"Good," James snaps back, his harsh tone uncharacteristic. "This is just typical of you, isn't it? Focus everything on what _you_ want, and to hell with the rest of us. You've always been the same. Bloody-minded and completely fucking selfish."

It's an unfair allegation, and Boyd guesses his brother knows it. Knows it, but won't ever apologise for it. In that way, at least, they are very alike. Sarcastic in defence, he says, "Must be genetic."

" _Screw_ genetics," is James's vehement response. "It's just _you_ , Pete. You and your stubborn, single-minded – "

But Boyd isn't listening. He's finally spotted Grace's car, and as it slows to turn onto his drive, he simply moves the phone from his ear and terminates the call. It won't be the end of the matter, he knows, not by a long, long way, but he has much more important things on his mind. He's in motion before the car is stationary, and he meets Grace at the front door with, "I've been trying to call you."

She looks tired. Tired and on edge. "Battery's flat."

He doesn't bother to argue. Asks instead, "Well?"

"Well, what? Take my bag a minute, will you?"

Clinging to the very last shreds of his patience, Boyd does as he's told and waits for her to shed her coat before demanding, "Well… did you talk to Carol again?"

"We would have done," Grace tells him, hanging her coat up and taking back her bag, "if she hadn't been admitted to hospital late this afternoon. Overdose."

He stares at her, trying to take in the unexpected news. " _Overdose_?"

"Tramadol," she confirms. "Louise found her and called an ambulance."

"Fuck," he says, his mind racing. Belatedly, he adds, "How is she?"

Grace shakes her head. "Not good. She's in intensive care. They'll run some more tests in the morning."

"Why?" Boyd asks, then realises she's likely to misunderstand the question. "Why did she do it, I mean? You saw her earlier today, how was she then?"

"Edgy, but okay. I didn't think there was cause for concern." She takes a deep, audible breath. "It gets worse."

"Worse?" he challenges. "How can it get much fucking _worse_?"

Her voice is quiet. "Spence has been summoned to a meeting at the Yard first thing on Monday morning. He thinks DAC Larch is going to instruct him to suspend the entire investigation until further notice."

-oOo-

Boyd takes his anger and frustration out on the kitchen door. It's not intentional, but the hinges are old and stiff, the door sticks from time to time as the wood expands and contracts with changes in the weather, and it defies him at entirely the wrong moment. It helps, though, the sudden, wild physical release of so much pent-up emotion, and by the time Grace finally joins him at the breakfast bar where Anna Dawson was sitting only a few days before, Boyd is perched on one of the high, chrome-legged stools examining his sore and bruised knuckles with phlegmatic calm. Expecting to see grim disapproval in her eyes, he glances round at her and says, "Shakespeare's overrated."

"As a tool for anger management?"

"Yeah."

She moves to stand behind him, places her hands on his shoulders and starts to rub the stiff, tight muscles there. There's no condemnation in the way she says, "The whole thing's a mess, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Boyd says again. It's soothing, the way she's kneading his shoulders. Soothing and reassuring. He's not altogether joking as he adds, "Maybe we should just get in the damn car, drive to Heathrow and jump on the first bloody flight with empty seats."

"The way our luck is going at the moment, we'd end up in Bratislava, or something."

"Trust me, Grace, even that has some appeal at the moment." He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. Practicalities, he tells himself. Concentrate on what _can_ be done, not on what _can't_. "Right. Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head. "Not really – we grabbed a sandwich at the hospital. You?"

"No."

"Drink?" she suggests, the look in her eyes making it clear she's thinking of something much stronger than just tea or coffee.

"Drink," Boyd agrees, getting to his feet and turning to face her. She still looks tired, but some of the tight-lipped stress seems to have left her. Impulsively, he puts his arms around her and draws her against him, gratified when she slips her arms around his waist in return and rests her head against his shoulder. In a quiet murmur, he says, "Thank you."

Grace looks up at him, a puzzled frown forming. "For…?"

He shrugs. "Just… for being you."

To Boyd's surprise, she doesn't tease him for his uncharacteristic sentimentality. Instead, she lowers her head again and says, "Everything will work itself out, you'll see. It always does in the end."

-oOo-

_cont..._

 


	5. Part 5

**PART FIVE**

_Peter_ , Grace writes on the edge of the morning paper, and follows the name with four more: _Gavin_ , _Alison_ , _Michael_ , _Louise_. Străjescu's five children. Five children, but only two of them with the same woman. Into the easy silence of a quiet Saturday morning, she calls, "It's strange, isn't it?"

From the next room comes the expected reply: "What is?"

"Mihail's… promiscuity." The word sounds prim and old-fashioned, but she can't think of a better alternative. "Everything I've read suggests that the Kalderash have some of the strongest and most deep-rooted traditions of any gypsy culture, particularly surrounding marriage and sexual behaviour, and yet…"

An unshaven, slightly unkempt Boyd appears in the connecting doorway, hands thrust deep into the hip pockets of jeans that might once have been black, but are now a worn and unremarkable grey. "He was perfectly happy to screw around?"

"Quite," she says, not bothering to chastise him for his bluntness. The jeans are paired with a casual shirt that sports an expensive designer label and fits him well enough for Grace to notice and keep noticing. It's a notable bright spot in an otherwise depressing morning.

"He was still a kid when he moved to this country," he reminds her, apparently unaware of her close scrutiny. "No reason for him to adopt traditional views and beliefs. Plenty of reasons to ditch them, in fact, I'd say."

"To give himself greater sexual freedom?" Grace guesses.

Boyd shrugs. "Maybe. Who knows? During the war everyone was shagging every chance they got just in case they didn't make it, and after the war – "

" – everyone was just so pleased to still be alive that they shagged whenever they could just for the hell of it?" she finishes for him. "To use your charming terminology."

Straight-faced, he says, "I'm sure history hasn't recorded it _quite_ like that, but essentially, yeah. It was just all a bit more discreet in those days, wasn't it?"

"Nice girls _didn't_ ," she says, equally deadpan, "even though everyone knows that they _did_."

The grin he gives her is knowing. Engaging, too. "Exactly. One of those polite fictions that post-war British society would have fought to the death to maintain."

"He must have been quite a charmer. Mihail."

"Aren't we all?"

Snorting, Grace drums her fingers idly on the smooth surface of the breakfast bar, not really aware of doing so. "Do you have the feeling we're missing something? Something we haven't considered that should be blindingly obvious?"

"Regarding the case, you mean? Well, if we are, Christ knows what it is. Anyway, as of yesterday, isn't Carol our prime suspect?"

"It seems a bit too… tidy. Don't you think?"

"Deranged mother offs late partner's son to protect her daughter?"

"Yes," Grace agrees, adding, "and, by the way, there's no empirical evidence that Carol _is_ , or ever _was_ , deranged."

Boyd grunts, wanders towards her with the kind of nonchalance that immediately makes her suspicious. Changing the subject, he says, "Fancy a trip to Neasden?"

"Today?" she asks, surprised. When he nods, she asks, "What's at Neasden?"

"Not _what_ ," he tells her, " _who_."

-oOo-

"I've known that boy since he was just a babe in arms," Solomon says, as the 'boy' in question heads out of the room on what they all know is a fool's errand, a simple ploy to get him out of the way. He gives Grace a long, thoughtful look, one she returns with perfect composure. Apparently satisfied by what he sees, he continues, "His father was a good friend to me and my family for many years."

Suspecting that she is being thoroughly appraised, Grace nods. "I know, he told me."

"We were alone and destitute when we arrived in England," the old man tells her, "and frightened, too. Men like Douglas gave us back our faith in the basic goodness of human nature."

Looking at him, she wonders what secrets are hidden behind the mask of amiable eccentricity. What horrors he saw all those decades ago. More to further the conversation than anything else, she says, "You were born in Bucharest, I gather?"

"I was, like my father before me, and his father before him." He gives her another long, contemplative look. "And you, Doctor Grace? Where are you from? Yours is not a London accent, this I know."

"Lancashire, not far from Wigan, but I've lived here for almost thirty years now," she explains. Soloman nods, but doesn't comment on the information. Silence falls between them, not tense, but a little uncomfortable.

"Go ahead and ask your questions," he says quite suddenly, nodding towards the door, "while you've got the chance."

Amused, Grace asks, "Am I really that transparent?"

His gaze is sharp, intelligent. "My dear, if you had no questions to ask, I would wonder if you were the right sort of woman for him."

Not knowing how to react, she settles for saying, "I see."

"You don't want to know what he was like as a child?" Soloman inquires.

"Of course I do."

"But you are English, and therefore not sure that it's quite polite to ask?" he guesses.

"Possibly," Grace admits. He's right, of course.

"He was shy," Soloman says, surprising her. "Shy, quiet, and kind. A clever, thoughtful boy who loved his family and was loved by them in return. But there was another side to him. A darker side. He was obstinate, easily riled. Quick to get into fights with other boys. Difficult to punish, too. Defiant, you understand? Strong-willed. Not like James. James was just as mischievous, sometimes even more so, but he didn't have the wild streak that Peter did. But none of this is really news to you, is it? The boy grew into a man, but he didn't change very much, hm?"

Considering her words with care, Grace says, "He thinks it's Străjescu's fault. That the… less pleasant… side of his character is… some kind of unfortunate genetic inheritance."

"Maybe it is," Soloman says, watching her. "Who can tell? The question should be, does it matter? The measure of a man is how he lives, not how he's born. Douglas was frightened he'd become a delinquent. Instead, he became a police officer. We should have predicted that? Any of us? Ask your question, Grace; the one you really want to ask."

She doesn't remember the last time she was on the receiving end of such forthright perspicacity. It's strange, intimidating, and just a little bit intriguing. She thinks she could grow to like Soloman very much. "All right… how do I help him through this?"

He gives her a gentle smile. "You don't know the answer to that?"

"I… don't know."

"You give him what he needs. What he's needed his whole life. Love. Stability. A place to belong."

Bemused by the simplicity of his reply, she says, "Oh."

"But I think," Soloman says, still studying her with perceptive calm, "that you give him all those things already. Listen to an old man, Grace – you can't save him from himself. Only Petrică can do that."

"Petrică… Peter?" she guesses, struck by the sudden urge to laugh.

"A personal folly," he confides with what is very nearly a wink. As they both hear the sound of approaching footsteps outside the room, he gives her another long, thoughtful look and says, "Remember, _bubeleh_ : the sins of the father are not _always_ to be laid upon the children."

"Shakespeare," Grace says, distant memories of her schooldays stirring. " _The Merchant of Venice_."

"A misquote," Soloman admits, "but apposite, don't you think…?"

-oOo-

"Petrică," she says again, just to annoy him.

His attention on the road ahead, Boyd doesn't look at her. "Shut up, Grace."

"I like it. It's very…"

"I'm warning you."

Chuckling, she murmurs, " _Petrică_."

"It's not _that_ bloody funny," he growls, slowing the car as they approach a busy junction. "And don't think I didn't notice the crafty old devil giving you a sneaky kiss goodbye."

Smug, Grace says, "I think he liked me."

He spares her a sideways look. "Well, of course he bloody _did_. As far as Solly's concerned, a man without a woman to boss him around is a _shmendrik_."

Grace doesn't ask him to clarify, decides context is enough. Instead, she asks, "Where are we going?"

"Epping."

Not the answer she was expecting. Sit up a little straighter, she asks, "What? Why?"

Boyd keeps his eyes on the road ahead. "Because I want to see for myself where they found him."

-oOo-

There's something about Epping Forest that Grace has never liked. Visually, it's no different to any other large stretch of broad-leafed woodland of its type. Nearly six thousand acres of trees and woodland plants, paths and clearings. A handful of ponds, too, and the stream that winds through it, forking east and west. Picturesque and tranquil, she still finds it an unsettling place to be, possibly due to its somewhat unfair reputation over the years as a premier deposition site for some of the most notorious London-based criminals. Even though it's a bright, clear afternoon, she makes sure she keeps up with Boyd's long-legged stride as they head north towards the approximate area where Michael Allen's remains were discovered by the inquisitive canine companion of an unwary walker. It's a foolish, superstitious unease, maybe, but it doesn't ebb at all as they move further and further from the road.

"Do we assume," she asks, wondering if they currently are the only people walking this particular section of path, "that there's at least some truth in what Summer said? That Michael was here voluntarily, looking for mushrooms? I mean, if his body was brought here in a vehicle, why go to all the effort – and risk – of carrying it all this way from the car park just to bury it a couple of hundred yards from the path?"

"I'm assuming nothing," Boyd tells her as he starts to gain ground, "but if you're asking me if I think _that_ part of her story is plausible, then I'd have to say yes, all things considered."

"Fly agaric is poisonous," Grace ruminates, struggling to stay level with him.

"It is," he agrees, pausing to look around, as if getting his bearings.

"Though deaths from ingesting it are rare," she adds, following as he starts into motion again.

"You've been talking to Eve," he accuses, not looking round at her.

"Mm," Grace says, avoiding a low branch as they leave the footpath to veer west. "She thinks that if that's what he was doing, he was collecting them to take home to dry. Mushroom tea."

This time Boyd does glance back at her, eyebrows raised. "It worries me, the type of conversations you two seem to have whenever my back's turned."

Smirking at the possible implications, Grace continues, "Anyway… my point is, it's extremely unlikely he was out here simply eating them raw as he found them – "

" _If_ he found them."

" – so it's _also_ extremely unlikely that he died from some misfortune connected to the equivalent of a bad acid trip."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know, Grace," Boyd grumbles over his shoulder, "or haven't already been able to work out for myself."

Swatting at an unwelcome influx of small black flies, she says, "Just thinking aloud."

"Well don't," he orders, suddenly brusque as he quickens his pace even more. "Stating the bloody obvious every five minutes isn't going to help _anyone_."

Peeved by his tetchy response, Grace glowers at the back of his head and demands, "Do have to be _quite_ so obnoxious? What on earth's the matter with you _now_?"

Boyd stops so suddenly that she almost collides with him. He surveys the small clearing they've reached, then turns, and his expression darkens as he says, "Take a wild guess. Come on, Grace, you're supposed to be the expert on human behaviour – what could _possibly_ be the matter with me at this exact moment in time?"

Realising that their surroundings look at least vaguely familiar, she starts, "Boyd – "

"No," he snaps at her, stepping away. "Take a look around you. Notice anything familiar? That half-dead oak tree, for example? Or those two big beeches over there?"

"All right, all right," she says, trying to placate him. "It was a tactless thing to say, I'm sorry."

But it seems Boyd isn't in the mood to be mollified. "I take it you _have_ actually bothered to look at the crime scene photographs, have you? You do know exactly _where_ we are and _what_ we're looking at, do you?"

"I'm sorry," Grace says again, striving for patience and calm. "Look – "

"This is where they found him," he barks at her, his voice getting louder and harsher with every word. "Right here in the middle of bloody nowhere. Buried under just eighteen inches of soil, the flesh rotted off his bones… My brother, Grace. My fucking _brother_."

It can only be her imagination, but just for a second Grace fancies she can feel every iota of his anger and agony. It seems to buffet her like an almost physical force, and it makes her take an involuntary step backwards. Again, she tries, "Boyd…"

" _No_ ," he roars, bleak with fury. "I don't want to hear it. No platitudes, no homilies, and _no_ fucking psycho-babble."

The sheer amount of rage and frustration behind the bitter words frightens her, and it's that alien, unwelcome fear that makes Grace savage in defence as she hits back with, " _Fine_. Go ahead and enjoy wallowing in your guilt and self-pity, then. It's what you're best at, after all, isn't it?"

The frozen look on his face reminds her of another time, another bitter argument. Reminds her that for all his occasional rudeness and abrasive insensitivity, Boyd has never managed to wound her quite as spectacularly as she's wounded him in the past. He is impatient and intolerant, and he far too often speaks without thinking, especially when he's riled, but he doesn't have her sharp inclination and unrivalled ability to form such a brutal barb and drive it home with such surgical precision. Thoughtless and inconsiderate, yes; deliberately, wantonly cruel, never.

"Boyd…" she says again, contrite and ashamed, but also furious with him for pushing her to it, and furious with herself for not having the self-control to turn her back and walk away from his brittle antagonism.

"Get the hell _away_ from me," he growls at her, suddenly taut, ominously quiet, and over-controlled. "Go on. Fuck off and leave me alone."

It's too easy, Grace realises, to fall into the trap of accepting his fierce temper and his wild unpredictability as mere eccentricities, albeit disagreeable rather than endearing ones. Too easy to embrace the gentler, kinder side of his nature and either wilfully ignore the more dangerous extremes of his temperament, or treat them as unpleasant foibles to which she is somehow miraculously immune. Too easy, in fact, to become complacent in his company, to forget that so much of his professional success and personal tragedy has been built on a ruthless, formidable refusal to behave in the manner expected of him.

Too easy, in short, to forget that the amiable friend, the gentle lover, has a much darker side, just as Soloman stated.

"Or…?" she challenges, her innate defiance pushing her through the unpleasant frisson of fear.

Boyd's hands are still at his sides, but his fists are tightly balled. " _Go_."

"No," Grace says, holding her ground even though her heart is now thumping wildly in her chest. Experience and training tell her to do everything she can to de-escalate the situation. Instinct tells her to meet him head on, to let him rage at her if that's what he needs to be able to let go of some of the conflicted tension inside him that's been building for days. Instinct wins. "Go on, then," she instructs, cold and calm, "have a tantrum. Kick something. Shout at me. Hit me. Go ahead – do whatever it is you're going to do, Boyd. Let's see what that 'bad blood' you're so convinced you've inherited is _really_ capable of."

Provoking him is a dangerous strategy, and she knows it. Boyd doesn't speak, doesn't move, but although he's a good six feet away from her, Grace is certain he's shaking. Shaking with rage, or shaking with the sheer effort of controlling himself, she doesn't know. It's both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing on a big open plain in the middle of a thunderstorm, waiting for the lightning that must surely strike her.

When she's absolutely sure the most dangerous moment has passed and he's not going to move, she risks speaking again, her tone much, much softer, "See? You can't do it, can you? When it comes down to it, you're incapable of crossing that final line. Because you're a _good_ man, Peter. Your _own_ man. Not Străjescu's son or Douglas's. You're just _you_."

"Fucking psychologists." The anger's gone from his voice. Instead, he sounds shaky, lost. Almost – though it can't possibly be the case – on the verge of tears.

"It's okay," Grace soothes, taking a tentative step towards him. "Let go of it. They're dead. The past is dead. It's just _you_ now, and whatever you want to be."

"I've spent my entire life fighting, Grace," he declares, seeming to rally. "Fighting for recognition, fighting for justice, fighting for a place in the bloody world. And if there was ever a moment when there was nothing to fight, I'd look and _keep_ looking until I found something."

"I know." Another careful step towards him. "But it's pointless. You're never going to win, because the enemy you're fighting – the thing that makes you so angry – isn't injustice, or prejudice, or other people, it's _fear_. The overwhelming, crippling fear that lives inside you. You're _afraid_ , Peter. Afraid of yourself. Afraid of all the things about yourself that you don't understand, and of all the things that you do."

Without warning, his body slumps. He remains standing, but his shoulders are dropped and his head is low. He doesn't look at her as he says, " _Don't_ , Grace."

"Do you know why I decided to study psychology?" she asks, and when there's no response, she continues, "I'll tell you, shall I? Initially it wasn't because I thought I wanted to help people, or because I thought I could perhaps empathise with them. It was simply because I'd become fascinated by the extraordinary complexity of human behaviour. Being able to explain why people do what they do, being able to predict what they're likely to do… it intrigued me."

Boyd does not look up as he grinds out, "Get to the damned point."

"As a psychologist, I look at people," Grace tells him, "and first I ask myself, ' _what_ are they doing?' and ' _why_ are they doing it?'"

"Grace…"

"Then I ask myself, 'what would they do _if_ …?'" she continues. "And finally, at least in a clinical setting, 'what could be done to help modify their behaviour?'." Shrugging, she finishes, "That's what psychology is, Boyd. Not some mystical dark art to be feared and avoided at all costs."

"You're not my therapist."

"So you've told me. Often." She sighs, quiet and weary. "You're one of the most unpredictable people I know, which frequently makes answering the third question difficult. And as for the fourth… Look, in the end it's as simple as this: do you want to stop fighting? Or, at least, be able to pick and choose your battles? If the answer's yes, then the first step is to learn to recognise how your… inner conflict… informs your behaviour."

"Fuck's sake," Boyd mutters, finally looking at her, but he sounds thoroughly defeated, as if he simply doesn't have a single scrap of energy left for confrontation. "I _don't_ need to see a shrink, okay?"

"Then accept yourself for what you are," she orders. "It's the only way you're ever going to find any peace."

"I don't _know_ what I am, that's the bloody problem," he growls, his genuine frustration quite clear. "Eldest son of a respectable middle-class solicitor, or illegitimate fucking gypsy kid from the East End?"

"Neither," Grace tells him, closing what's left of the gap between them and daring to put her arms around him, "and both."

-oOo-

"Mind the bus," a tetchy Boyd orders from the passenger seat of his beloved little classic sports car. "Christ, Grace, be bloody careful, will you?"

"I was _miles_ away from it," she claims, which they both know is a gross exaggeration. "Stop heckling, for heaven's sake. I'm perfectly capable of getting us safely home without a running commentary from _you_ , thank you."

He makes a disparaging noise, but lapses into sullen silence, leaving Grace to wonder if insisting on taking the wheel was really as good idea as it had seemed when they'd finally returned to the woodland car park. Like its owner, the little roadster may look good, but has its own unique quirks and isn't particularly easy to handle. That Boyd actually handed over the keys on request speaks volumes about his current state of mind. Or maybe, she thinks, he was simply too tired to argue. Either way, she's now – literally – in the driving seat, and is thoroughly enjoying the novelty. If only he was a better passenger…

His phone starts to ring, and she half expects him to order her to stop the car. He doesn't. Instead, he answers its summons with a terse, "Boyd."

Get him home, get some food into him, and make him relax, that's her plan. It's gone six o'clock now, and lunch was a quick and meagre affair, after all. Feed him, relax him. Yes.

"Yeah," Boyd says into his phone. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know, Spence."

She risks a quick, interrogative frown in his direction, but he shakes his head as he continues to listen to whatever it is he's being told. Grace doesn't miss the fractional tightening of his jaw, the way he takes on the familiar brooding expression that never, ever bodes well. Concentrating on the road and the traffic, she shoots him the occasional worried glance, trying to work out what's going on from his mainly monosyllabic side of the conversation. When he says a curt farewell to his subordinate and returns his phone to his pocket, she asks, "Well? What's happened?"

"Carol Kemp's dead," he tells her, staring straight ahead. "Cardiac arrest."

Shocked, Grace slows the car. " _What_? When?"

"This afternoon at the hospital," he says. "They did everything they could, but…"

"Louise…?"

"Has been informed. Jesus, just when you think things can't get any fucking worse…"

Spying a safe place to pull the little car into the kerb and stop, Grace does so. For a moment neither of them says anything. Looking down at the steering wheel with its distinctive central lightning bolt, she wrestles with a powerful and unpleasant surge of guilt. She says, "If Spence and I hadn't gone back to interview her a second time…"

Boyd turns his head to look at her. "It's not your fault."

"Why do I feel so guilty, then?" she demands.

He doesn't offer an answer, just says, "Louise has asked to make a statement. Spence says DCI Llewellyn's mob have been told to do it. Orders from on high."

"Fuck," Grace says, startling herself. It's been a long, difficult afternoon… and now _this_. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

Boyd regards her with quiet, impassive calm. "Want me to drive?"

-oOo-

The little cared-for rectangle of lawn at the rear of Boyd's house isn't much of a garden. No flowerbeds, no character. A tree or two, and a few hardy shrubs on the boundaries by the gently listing fence panels, a garden shed full of the usual clutter, and the forlorn, long-abandoned garden soccer goal that she suspects he will never have the heart to dismantle. The tubular metal posts are rusting, and the net is dirty and fraying, but it's still there, still exactly where it was placed and staked down the very last time father and son set it up heaven knows how many years ago. A mournful reminder that the house and its garden was once an ordinary, happy family home. Sitting on the stone steps that lead down to the unmown grass, Grace lets her melancholy thoughts wander where they will, not bothering to fight them. The sky is still darkening, and the temperature is still dropping, but she barely notices. Too much to think about.

She doesn't hear the back door open, and she jumps when Boyd appears next to her and settles on the same step. Without a word, he hands her a mug that contains an indeterminate brown liquid that's giving off gentle wisps of steam. Coffee, she realises from the distinctive aroma. Giving him a wan smile of thanks, she sips it cautiously. Not too hot, not too sweet. Decaffeinated, no doubt, given the hour. Sighing, she says, "All the successes we've had over the years, and in the end it's only the failures that ever really stay with us, isn't it?"

" _Failure_ might be overstating the case a little at this point," Boyd says. Consciously or not, he puts a heavy, reassuring arm around her shoulders. She doesn't know if he's offering warmth or comfort, or both. "Grace, you couldn't possibly have predicted that Carol would do what she did. You said yourself that she seemed very normal, that she had no history of mental health problems."

"We guessed something wasn't quite right, though, didn't we?"

"You're still not to blame," he insists.

"So if Spence and I _hadn't_ interviewed her about Michael, she'd still have taken an overdose, would she?"

"You did your job, Grace. That's all. If there was some deep-hidden secret that she felt she couldn't live with if it came out into the open… well, that's not your fault, is it?"

He's trying to be kind, she knows, and the rational part of her mind knows that he's right – but it doesn't help much. Looking down into her mug, she says, "And Louise? This statement she wants to make?"

She feels Boyd shrug. "Who knows? Maybe Summer was telling the truth after all, and Carol _did_ kill Michael."

"In which case…"

He groans. "Don't say it, Grace."

"If we'd believed her and arrested Carol – "

" – there's _still_ no guarantee that she'd be alive now," he finishes for her. "This is all pure speculation. All we can do is wait."

"Oh, I know. I just feel so… helpless."

"It's frustrating, I know," Boyd agrees, "but for now it's completely out of our hands, so the best thing we can do is try not to dwell on it. _Any_ of it."

"When did you turn into the reasonable, sensible one?" Grace asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

A soft snort and, "About five hours ago, when someone not too far away gave me a long and irate lecture about needing to learn how to accept things and move on."

"I wasn't irate," she argues. "Not by that point."

"If you say so." Boyd gets to his feet, holds out a hand to her. "Come on, it's getting cold out here, and I, for one, am looking forward to an early night."

The idea has considerable appeal, but… "Would you be terribly offended if I said I really wasn't in the mood for – "

"God's sake," he interrupts, disgust clear in his tone. "What sort of man do you take me for?"

"I think we both know the answer to that," Grace says, letting him help her upright.

"Be that as it may," he grumbles, "I'm not in the bloody mood, _either_. Nothing about today has been conducive to thoughts of _that_ nature. You can stay up all night brooding if you want to, Grace, but I'm going to bed. To sleep."

-oOo-

"It's quite romantic when you think about it," she says into the quiet darkness. Trying not to think about Carol or Louise Kemp has taken her mind along a new and meandering path. When there's no response from her supine companion, she clarifies, "Gypsy ancestry. It's quite romantic."

"Oh, God." A loud, irritable sigh. "Will you _please_ stop wittering and go to sleep?"

"Well it _is_."

"Shut _up_ , Grace."

"But – "

"Not an appropriate subject for flippancy, okay?" Boyd tells her. "Not at the moment. Maybe not _ever_."

Not at all intimidated by the implicit rebuke, Grace settles deeper under the covers and listens for a moment to the sound of a small-engined motorcycle being noisily revved in the street just outside the house. Boyd's neighbour's teenaged son, she assumes. The tall, lanky one with the cheeky grin and the all-black wardrobe. Thoughts starting to wander again, she asks, "Do you remember the McDonaghs?"

"Well, of _course_ I bloody do," he growls next to her. "And if this conversation's going where I think it's going…"

She ignores the implied warning. "Nana McDonagh read my cards for me, did you know that? The night they burned Davy's caravan."

"One wise old crone to another, sort of thing?" Boyd inquires, the smirk she can't see quite clear in his voice.

Aiming for the nearest bare shin, Grace kicks him hard and without compunction before continuing, "She has a gift."

"Yeah, a gift for parting fools with their money, no doubt," he says, edging away from her. "Did she ask you to cross her palm with silver?"

Rolling over onto her side to peer at what she can see of him in the gloom, Grace shakes her head. "You're so cynical, Boyd. And no, she didn't. She offered to do it as a thank you, and I accepted."

"Let me guess," he challenges, "she told you there was a tall dark handsome stranger in your future?"

"If she had, it wouldn't have been _you_ , would it?" Grace says, not prepared to miss such a good opportunity. With what she considers perfect timing, she adds a reflective, "Though you _are_ quite tall, I suppose, and _considerably_ stranger than a lot of men I know."

Boyd's reply is a model of restraint. "Is there a point to this, or are you just rambling to annoy me?"

Chuckling to herself for a moment, she sobers and says, "Afterwards, Nana said something about you that made no sense at the time. It was just a passing reference, something about – "

"Don't want to hear it," he interrupts, and his tone is suddenly so sharp and so brusque that Grace knows that he means it. Less harsh, he continues, "Just leave it alone and let me deal with things in my own time and in my own way, will you?"

"All right," she allows. "But – "

"No 'buts', Grace. Subject closed, okay?"

"Okay, okay," she murmurs, still thinking about Nana McDonagh and that strange, slightly surreal night. Flames in the woods, the barking of dogs, the smell of campfires and cooking. The eerie, respectful silence as the last burning panels of the caravan collapsed in on themselves. A way of life she doesn't understand, but finds far from repellent. Into the calm silence that has fallen between them she says, "If you wanted to go to Bucharest…"

Boyd's reply is quick, but not aggressive. "I don't."

"At some point in the future, I mean. If you ever wanted to go, I'd go with you. If you wanted me to."

Another silence, not as long as the first, then, "Why?"

"Because I love you," she explains patiently, "and that means I want to support you."

"Oh." More silence, then a gruff, "You were right, you know, Grace. When you said all this… extended family stuff… was going to have a profound effect on me, whether I liked it or not."

"I won't say 'I told you so'."

His reply is immediate. "Good. Now, can we _please_ go to sleep?"

-oOo-

She dreams of Linda. Dreams of that terrible day that's never quite going to leave her. Sometimes, in her dreams, Boyd and Spencer arrive too late to save her, and the very last thing she's aware of as her life is stolen away is the cold, evil beauty of Linda Cummings. Sometimes the end never comes, and she writhes in endless agony as the poison continuously burns through her veins. However the dreams go, she always wakes feeling cold, clammy, and half-suffocated.

Today is no different. The fine details of the horror are already fading as Grace blinks awake, heart-pounding, to find that it's morning and thin slices of sunlight are lancing into the room through narrow gaps in the heavy curtains. The fear retreats rapidly, as it almost always does when exposed to the bright light of reality and normality, leaving just a faint shadow of itself in her mind. Turning her head, her gaze seeks out her companion. Mostly buried, all she can really see of him is ruffled, untidy spikes of silver hair and one mysteriously out-flung arm. It's enough to help soothe her into quiet reflection.

That Boyd has turned some sort of corner in his restless pursuit of the truth about Străjescu, she has no doubt. Perhaps the painful visit to Epping Forest was the catalyst. To stand where the skeletal remains of his brother – half-brother – were found… To stand there, and actually listen to her instead of deliberately evading what she had to say… maybe that was the key moment. The moment when he found some sort of equilibrium, some sort of acceptance. He will process things in his own way, she knows, and if that proves not to be the way she'd recommend, well, at least he will do it.

"Are you awake?" Grace whispers, not wanting to rouse him if he's still deeply asleep.

An muffled noise answers her, followed by a hazy, "Mm."

It's her cue to ease against him, to cuddle up against his broad, warm back and place a gentle kiss on his shoulder. Affectionate rather than sensual. "I think we should get out of the city for the day," she tells him. "Go down to the coast, maybe. Just get _completely_ away for a few hours. Tomorrow is going to be… difficult."

"Mm," Boyd mutters again. He's not a great conversationalist when he's only just awake. Always interested in talking, his reticence frustrates her sometimes.

"Or," she says, knowing how to get his attention, "we could just stay in bed all day and…" Instead of finishing the sentence, Grace kisses his shoulder again, reaches up to run her fingers through his tousled hair. It has the desired effect. He rolls over onto his back, still a little sleep-befuddled, but clearly willing to enter into the spirit of things.

And that, of course, is when his phone starts to ring.

-oOo-

The woman who meets them outside the nursing home strikes Grace as unremarkable. It's not a malicious judgement, not at all, but she's the sort of woman who disappears easily in a crowd. Not exactly mousey, not exactly unattractive. Just… ordinary. She could be a school secretary, a doctor's receptionist, or perhaps the assistant manager of a minor branch of some sprawling retail chain. The only thing about her that really catches Grace's attention is – of course – her deep, dark eyes. Not quite the same shape, but exactly the same colour, and with exactly the same tendency to look more hazel than chocolate brown in direct sunlight. Alison Price, Ruby Chapman's daughter.

"I'm so sorry," she says again, when the greetings and introductions are over. "I feel terrible dragging you both over here on a Sunday morning, but… Well, to be honest, I simply had no idea what else to do."

"It's absolutely fine," Grace assures her, the frustrated annoyance she felt when the call came now long forgotten. "We hadn't made any plans for the day."

The irascible sideways look Boyd gives her tells its own story, but he quickly refocuses his attention and asks, "How is she now?"

"Much calmer," Alison acknowledges, "but if you could have heard her an hour ago…"

"And the description the staff gave you of her unexpected visitor fits Louise Kemp?"

"Perfectly," she confirms. "I mean, it's been years since I actually saw her, but yes. I'm certain it was her, Peter."

"I don't disbelieve you," Boyd says, "but although your mother was clearly very upset by whatever was said to her, there's nothing the police can do about it. No offence has been committed."

"That's why I called _you_ and not the local police station," Alison says. "The things she's saying… I just don't know what to make of them. I mean, yes she rambles sometimes, and she often forgets things, but I've never heard her say anything like _this_."

Boyd's patience is ebbing, Grace can see. It's confirmed when he demands, "Like _what_?"

Alison blinks, as if taken aback by his brusqueness. "She's saying… she's saying _Gavin_ was responsible for Michael's death."

"Gavin?" Grace says, casting a startled, questioning look at Boyd. "She actually said that? That your brother killed Michael?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Alison shakes her head, her face a study in quiet misery. "Not exactly. Half of what she's saying doesn't make any sense to me at all. She thought I was her sister, Ivy. Kept asking me where dad was. She's so confused…"

-oOo-

"I suspect," Grace murmurs to Boyd, as the three of them reach the door to the dayroom, "that it's highly likely that she's going to mistake you for Mihail. If she does…"

"Play along," he replies. "Yeah, I know."

Next to him, Alison has stopped. She's looking at the open door, an indecipherable expression on her face. Grace touches her arm. "All right?"

"If you don't mind," Alison says, her voice unnaturally thin and high, "I think I'll go and wait outside. Is that all right?"

"Of course," Grace tells her, before Boyd can say anything. "We'll have a chat with her, then come and find you."

"Thank you." A small, grateful smile. "I hate seeing her like this."

"Perfectly understandable. Don't worry – we'll be as sensitive as we can be."

"Or not," Boyd mutters under his breath, so low that only Grace can hear him. She scowls at him, but doesn't say anything as Alison nods, turns and walks away. When she disappears around the corner of the corridor, he adds at normal volume, "'Sensitive'?"

Grace rolls her eyes. "If we had more time, I'd attempt to explain the concept to you in words of one syllable. As it is… just try not to lose your temper, Boyd. Shouting at a confused old lady won't achieve _anything_."

"Noted. Come on, then."

The only occupant of the dayroom is a tiny, white-haired old woman who's sitting in front of a large television. The sound is muted, and on the screen two excitable young men seem to be cooking some kind of exotic foreign dish that features something that looks rather too much like squid to be appetising. The elderly woman's stare is fixed and vacant, but her lips move continuously, forming silent words. Grace casts a quick glance at Boyd, and he nods, answering her unspoken question. Ruby Chapman.

They advance together, quiet and slow. It's Boyd who ventures, "Ruby…?"

She looks round, and Grace is immediately struck by her pale blue-grey eyes. They look washed out, as if old age has stolen away most of their colour. A puzzled frown forms on the lined features. "Mick…?"

Boyd's reply is soft. "Hello, Ruby."

"Where've you been?" she demands, suddenly querulous. "I've been waiting for you for _hours_."

Boyd perches on the edge of the chair next to her. "Sorry. I had things to do."

"Macdonald's looking for you," she declares, absolute conviction in her tone, "so wherever you've been, it wasn't down the docks. You've been with _her_ again, haven't you?"

"No, I was…" Boyd starts, but seems to run out of inspiration.

Grace attempts to rescue him with, "Hello, Ruby."

The faded eyes settle on her without surprise or curiosity. "I told you he'd turn up eventually, didn't I, Ivy? Bad pennies always do."

"I've been talking to Alison," Grace says, sitting down on the chair next to Boyd's. "She said you were a bit upset."

"Alison?"

"Your daughter," she encourages. "She told me you had a visitor this morning."

"One of _his_ bastard children," Ruby agrees, with a vehemence and a clarity that's starling. She glares at Boyd, but doesn't say anything further.

"Louise," Grace says. "Carol's daughter."

The response is immediate and angry. "That little tart! Thinks she's so much better than everyone else. Didn't stop her dropping her knickers for him at the back of the _Coach and Horses_ , did it? Nine months later, and she's not so smug."

It's evident that Ruby's focus is far more on Carol than on Louise. Quiet and patient, Grace says, "Her daughter Louise came to see you today, didn't she? Alison said she said some things that upset you."

"He's not a bad boy," Ruby retorts, looking from Grace to Boyd and back. "My Gavin. Drinks too much like his pathetic excuse for a father, but he's not a bad boy. That wife of his only got what she deserved when he caught her with her fancy man. A lot of fuss over nothing, it was."

Eighteen months in Wormwood Scrubs, Grace thinks. Hardly 'a lot of fuss over nothing'. She says, "Ruby, do you remember Michael?"

"Mihail?" the old woman says, her gaze straying towards Boyd again.

" _Michael_ ," he says, which only seems to confuse Ruby even further.

Grace tries, "Michael and Louise?"

A definite glimmer of comprehension appears in the pale eyes. "He denied it. I asked him flat out, and he denied it. Said there must be something wrong with me to think such a terrible thing."

"Michael?" Grace queries. She hopes Boyd will restrain his impatience long enough for her to make some progress.

Ruby nods without hesitation. "I told him no good would come of it, Ivy, and he said I was imagining things. But I saw the way he looked at her. Like father, like son. A pretty young thing in a short skirt, and there's only one thought in their damned heads." Her gaze shifts, moves back to Boyd. She looks puzzled as she asks, "I know you, don't I? June's boy, is it? Nicholas?"

Grace glances at Boyd, but his expression doesn't change, remains impassive as he asks, "What did Louise say to you this morning, Ruby?"

Ruby frowns. "I told her – my Gavin's a good boy. He doesn't mess around with drugs. It wasn't his fault. They shouldn't have got him involved. He's a good boy at heart, everyone knows that."

Deciding to follow a hunch, Grace leans forward a little and says in a quiet, almost conspiratorial way, "But easily led?"

"That Michael with his silly flute and his hippie clothes… I kept telling him to leave my boy alone, but he didn't listen. They were brothers, he said. Brothers, indeed! No bastard child is going to be a brother to my son, that's what I told him." Ruby shakes her head. "No good will come of it, I said, you mark my words. And then there's my Alison to worry about… what if she decides to take up with them? Where's Mick? I need Mick. He'll knock some sense into them."

The wandering narrative isn't getting them anywhere, Grace decides. Still quiet, she says, "Ruby, can you – "

"Mick…?" Ruby says, her attention snapping back to Boyd. "Mick, where have you been?"

Boyd reaction is unexpected. Voice hard, he growls: " _Care l-a omorât pe Michael_?"

The intonation tells Grace that he's asking a question, and of course she recognises the name, but –

"It was an accident," Ruby blurts out, looking old and tired and frightened. "It was an _accident_ , Mick. Just a terrible, terrible accident…"

-oOo-

"Solly," Boyd says in answer to her question as they stand together in the nursing home's small rear garden, watching the two uniformed officers talking earnestly to Alison. "He was around a lot when we were kids."

"I'm impressed," Grace admits.

He shrugs. "Don't be. Monkey see, monkey do."

"I had no idea you had such a good ear for languages."

"There you go," Boyd tells her. "All this time, and you don't know everything about me."

"Oh, I'm _well_ aware of that," she admits, both dry and conciliatory.

"Besides," he admits after a moment, "I had a little help, thanks to modern technology. Amazing what you can learn using a smartphone while you're impatiently waiting for someone else to get ready."

Grace shakes her head. "Most people just want to ask things like 'where's the nearest restaurant?' in a foreign language, Boyd. Not be able to ask who killed someone."

He regards her with impassive calm. "I'm a copper, Grace."

"Yes," she agrees. "Yes, you are."

Not the son of a Scottish solicitor or a Romanian gypsy, she thinks, but simply Peter Boyd, a tough, hard-working London copper who walked into her life at a crowded crime scene one cold winter morning too long ago to think about, and never really went away.

-oOo-

_cont..._


	6. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE – A Week Later**

He suspects, just from how relaxed she seems to be, that Grace quite likes the ambiance of the large house with its colourful murals and mismatched furniture. She probably won't ever admit it, but Boyd has a hunch it reminds her very much of the dilapidated student house she lived in at the end of the 'sixties. The one he's heard her telling Eve about more than once. Right down to the lingering smell of marijuana, no doubt. Which she probably won't ever admit, either. Some things are best left mysterious, after all. Seated next to him on the elderly sofa, she sips her tea as she listens to the end of his – suitably edited – monologue. It might be Saturday, he might be off duty, but he has a nasty feeling he sounds far too much like a police officer as he relays their version of events to Anna and Summer.

The two women listen carefully, only interrupting him when they need him to clarify something. No unnecessary questions or commentary. He appreciates it. When he reaches the very end of his tale, a thoughtful silence falls over the room. Outside, the afternoon breeze gently stirs the leaves on the garden's untidy trees and shrubs. It's tranquil and it's not.

"And that's what the coroner will record?" Anna asks. "Misadventure?"

"I think so," Boyd confirms, nodding. "Ruby's what we call an unreliable witness, but her statement, such as it is, corroborates everything Louise told DCI Llewellyn's officers about what really happened that afternoon."

"And Louise?" Summer demands.

Not missing the cold edge of hostility in her voice, Boyd replies, "In theory she could be charged with conspiracy to prevent a lawful and decent burial, but I think it's unlikely. If charges _were_ brought, the CPS would probably decide it wasn't in the public interest to prosecute."

"How can that be right?" Summer asks, looking at each of them in turn. "My father's _dead_ , and no-one has to pay for it? How is that justice?"

It's Grace who says, "It must feel very unfair, but without anything to contradict Louise's version of events, there's nothing the police can do. Gavin Chapman isn't here to confirm or deny that he gave your father the pills that she claims killed him, and after so long there simply isn't any helpful physical evidence left. I'm sorry."

Her movements quick and sharp, Summer gets to her feet and strides across the room, heading out into the overgrown back garden without another word. Watching her go, her mother says, "Mike never touched hard drugs. Neither of us did."

Boyd doesn't disbelieve the claim. He says, "We're fairly sure Gavin was dealing. Not big time, but a few pills here and there amongst friends and acquaintances. Again, it's difficult to find out exactly what he was up to after so long – no-one who knew him is being particularly talkative – but it's entirely possible that he accidentally got hold of a bad batch of pills. It's not unknown for the toxicity levels of some to be off the scale, sadly."

"So Mike tried Ecstasy and it killed him," Anna murmurs, looking out of the window at her daughter.

"I'm sorry," Boyd says, and he really, really is. A renewed surge of hatred for those who produce and distribute the illegal drugs responsible for so much tragedy and pain catches him almost by surprise, and it does nothing to soothe the deep wounds he thinks he'll never fully learn to live with.

"Well, I suppose at least we now know what happened," she says, a clear attempt at bravery. "Thank you for everything you've done, Peter. And you, Grace."

Next to him, Grace nods in acknowledgement and says, "It's important that you try not to blame Louise. She may legally have been an adult, but she was young and very naïve – easily manipulated by someone much older and wiser."

"Gavin?"

"Yes," she confirms before Boyd can speak. "She says it all happened very fast, and that he convinced her that if they went to the police claiming Michael's death was an accident they wouldn't be believed, that burying him where he died was the best option for both of them. I've listened to the tapes of her interview, and I have to say that in my professional opinion she's telling the truth. She was scared… terrified, in fact… and Gavin played on that. He had a long criminal record going back years, and he wasn't going to run the risk of going back to prison, not when he thought there was an alternative."

Before Anna can react, Boyd adds, "I'm inclined to agree with Grace. I think Carol's overdose made Louise realise that the past really wasn't a closed book, and it was time to tell the truth. She's had to live with the guilt for a long, long time. Some would say that's punishment enough."

He's not surprised that she says, "I might be able to accept that, Peter, but I don't think Summer ever will."

"Give her time," Grace murmurs.

"That's all I can do, isn't it?" A long brooding pause is followed by, "Carol really thought there was something going on between Mike and Louise?"

It's an uncomfortable subject at best, but since it can't be avoided, Boyd nods. "So it seems. I think Ruby initially planted the seed, and her own mind gradually did the rest. When she thought everyone was going to find out what she honestly thought had been going on… Well, you know what happened."

"Mike would never have done something like that," is Anna's vehement response. " _Never_. Louise was his half-sister, but in a way he saw her more as another daughter. The idea that he… that they…"

"It was put to Louise by the officers who interviewed her," Grace says, "and she was every bit as horrified as you by the suggestion. There's absolutely no evidence that there was ever any… impropriety… between them."

"Forget about it," Boyd advises, thought he doubts she will. "When Alison was interviewed she voluntarily admitted that she's certain she simply misconstrued how close they were, but made the mistake of listening to her mother."

"So that's it," Anna says at length, looking out at her daughter again. "It's really all over?"

"Pretty much," he confirms. Aware that it must feel like something of an anti-climax, he adds, "I'm sorry if you think justice hasn't been done."

"I don't," Anna says, surprising him. "It's a relief to finally know exactly what happened. Thank you."

Boyd nods. He wishes there was more he could say, some further comfort he could offer. There isn't. He says, "It's been difficult for all of us, but now it's time to lay the past to rest, Anna."

"For you, too?" she says, and he knows she's referring to Străjescu.

"Yes," he agrees, and he means it. He glances at Grace, gives her a small smile, then looks back at Anna. "I'm fairly sure that admitting to having a copper in the family would be a little… inconvenient… but – "

"I could probably learn to live with it," Anna tells him, straight-faced. "But don't expect to be invited to our big summer barbeque every year. Having half my guests nicked for possession… would not be good."

"I don't want to know. I _really_ don't." He nods towards the garden, adds, "But Summer's my niece, so if you ever need anything…"

"Thank you," Anna says, getting up. She moves to a small, dilapidated chest of drawers, the top of which is buried beneath dozens of knick-knacks, and says, "I have something for you, Peter. Mihail gave it to Mike. You should have it."

Embarrassed, he says, "That's very kind, but – "

"You're the only one of his sons still alive," she points out, extracting something from the top drawer, "and besides, you were the eldest. Of course you should have it."

"Listen to her," Grace says with an encouraging smile.

Deciding that arguing with two strong-willed if well-meaning women would require far too much energy, and wouldn't necessarily end in success, Boyd stands up. He suddenly feels clumsy, awkward. "Well… if you're sure…"

She hands him a folded scrap of cloth. "It was your grandfather's."

Carefully peeling the thin folds of fabric apart, Boyd spots the dull shine of antique gold. A man's ring, he quickly discovers. Thick-banded and heavy, set with what looks like a large garnet and intricately engraved with interlocking wavy patterns. Not his taste, at all, and not the sort of thing that he'd ever consider wearing, but…

"It's beautiful," Grace says, suddenly at his shoulder. "Anna, are you absolutely sure?"

"Of course," Anna replies with a vigorous nod. "Mihail told us that Nicolae was given it by _his_ father. He was a skilled silversmith, apparently, and he made it for his son as a coming-of-age gift. Something like that, anyway. It's yours, Peter; keep it."

It fits, Boyd discovers, but he still won't ever wear it. Far too gaudy. He's no expert, not by any means, but the design strikes him as typically Roma. Aware he still sounds somewhat bemused, he says, "Thank you."

"Think of it as your inheritance, if you like," Anna tells him. "The only thing of your father's that you'll ever have."

The only physical thing, maybe. The rest, his temper, his obstinacy, and the worst extremes of his character, Boyd's still not entirely sure about. Bad blood? Perhaps, perhaps not. He takes the ring off, puts it in his jacket pocket. He clears his throat. "I should tell you… I'm going to Gavin's funeral. As much to support Alison, as anything else."

"None of my business," Anna says, but without any discernible trace of bitterness. There's a calm, faraway look in her eyes as she adds, "Blood's thicker than water, after all."

_Sângele apã nu se face…_

Good blood, bad blood, it's all pretty much the same under the lens of a microscope, he knows. A conceptual oddity with no basis in fact. Or so he's been told. As Grace slips her arm through his, Boyd nods. "So they say."

_\- the end -_


End file.
